Shingeki no Kyojin/進撃の巨人 1. without limit

_**ad infinitum**_

**Manhattan, New York**

_a.d. iv Kalendas Septembres, 2766 A.U.C._

The thin, glossy pages of the vaguely old fifty-cent X-Men comic crinkled beneath his sweaty fingers. He had begun to hum idly, a vaguely familiar tune to an old nursery rhyme or a hymn from his childhood that had long since bled dry into the faded landscape of his memory. The words drifted loftily in his mind, but he could not form them, and he could only catch wisps of a verse like grasping at smoke._ Meine H__ä__nde sind verschwunden…_ The late August heat had invaded the little comic shop on the lower floor of the massive mall he had dragged Hange into a few minutes earlier. There was a little fan cycling behind the front desk, white and rapidly circulating stale air, blowing back humidity with a whirring breath. The comic shop was a little underwhelming, and Eren was considering just leaving out of disappointment. Also, he was really, really hungry, and he was beginning to feel the vicious vertigo effect that overtook him when he neglected to eat a full meal or two every few hours.

"See anything you like?" Hange asked, hopping up beside him. They'd materialized from the shadows, creeping up on him as they liked to do when they noticed him focused on something moderately more interesting than a microscope.

"Not really," Eren said, flipping the page of the cheap comic book. "Where'd you go, anyways?"

"I saw myself on the news in Sears," Hange said, their large brown eyes growing wider with excitement. "They didn't even cut out my rambles about quantum physics this time!"

Hange Zoë was a very willowy person, with a lithe frame and a lax posture. They dressed in very loose, ambiguously casual clothing that could easily pass for formal with the addition of a vest or suit coat, which they tended to have hidden in the back of their car. Hange was a brilliant physicist, an entrepreneur, and a philanthropist. They had taken in Eren Jaeger five years ago, and adopted him the previous summer.

"So can we go?" Hange asked, adjusting their glasses and glancing at their watch. "Because I've got that thing."

Eren's knuckles closed tightly around the edge of the comic he was holding, and the pages made a soft crumpling sound. "You mean that thing that I can't go to?" he asked bitterly.

"You mean because you're grounded?" Hange smiled brightly. "Yes! I do, actually!"

Eren clapped the comic shut, and shoved it back into the box he'd unearthed it from. "It's not like anyone died," Eren snapped.

"Nope," Hange said, their smile big, but their eyes narrowed dangerously. "But five people are in the hospital, and three are critically injured."

"I didn't _mean_—!"

"Shh," Hange hushed, their gaze flashing to the lone worker of the comic shop. It was a young lady, probably in college, with a pen cap wiggling between her teeth as she gazed down at the counter. Eren was relieved to see white earbuds stuck inside her ears. "I know. But you need to understand where I'm coming from."

"I don't think I'm dangerous," Eren whispered furiously from behind a rack of new releases.

Hange merely smiled, and rubbed his hair affectionately. "Of course you are," they laughed, eyes glittering vaguely with something Eren could not describe, but he knew well. It was that mad look Hange got whenever the subject of Eren's ability was brought up. The terrible, terrifying curiosity that burned inside Hange's large brown eyes that signified that they needed to know more, and they were willing to push Eren to the edge for that information.

But thankfully, despite Hange being more than willing, they did not push Eren farther than they thought he could go. And he was grateful for it. Mostly.

"Bullshit," Eren growled, glaring at his feet. "I'm just… a little out of practice, okay? I don't get to go all out often."

"For this reason exactly," Hange reminded. Eren scowled at them, and they laughed again, though Eren could sense how forced it was. "Lighten up. I only grounded you for a week. And, hey, aren't you always complaining about missing your TV shows?" Hange grinned and snapped their fingers. "There we go! Watch some Netflix! Or better yet, make some friends!"

"I _have_ friends," Eren said stiffly. "And fuck you, I can't watch the episodes I've missed of _any_ of my shows on Netflix."

"I'm sorry, then why do we own this?" Hange blinked rapidly, and they frowned. "I'll work on that. Till then, I won't tell on you if you watch stuff illegally."

"Okay, whatever," Eren grumbled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He glanced out into the mall, and he sighed. "I'm hungry."

"Then go eat."

"I don't have the money," Eren said, glaring at them with his scowl still firmly in place. "Because _someone_ only gave me three dollars to buy a comic book."

"How terrible," Hange cooed, fishing their wallet out of their pocket and offering it out to him. "Promise me you won't max my card."

"You have like, seven, Hange," Eren retorted, snatching the wallet and whirling around. He paused, and he spun to face them again with a furious expression. "Don't you dare go outside and smoke."

"Whoa!" Hange threw their hands into the air, and grinned broadly. "Wasn't gonna. But, now that you mention it, I'm feelin' a little low…"

"This isn't a joke!" Eren shouted. Hange looked surprised, but they smiled nonetheless. The girl at the counter was watching them with a frown, one earbud clutched in her fist. "I'm gonna go and— and burn 'em, every last solitary cigarette!"

"Isn't that the point?" Hange offered weakly.

"No, it—!" Eren paused, and he clamped his mouth shut. His shoulders were squared, and he scoffed in irritation. "Whatever! Go on, burn up your lungs, see if I care!"

"I love you too!" Hange called as Eren whirled away again and marched out the door. "Have fun! Make good choices!"

Eren kicked a trashcan on the way out the door, and gave a rather startled squeak when it tipped over. He glanced around, and hastily put it back up, feeling guilty for letting his anger go unchecked. He could hear Hange laughing. _Practice what you preach_, Eren thought bitterly, his cheeks flushing.

He adjusted the backpack he had slung over one shoulder, vaguely remembering something about homework, but school had only just started, and he wasn't very concerned. He could probably just deal with it later. So he wandered around the ground floor of the mall, searching the signs for something to eat. The food court was on one of the upper floors, he was pretty sure, but that didn't mean there wasn't a little pretzel place or something lurking around somewhere.

Eren checked his phone. He probably should have eaten something about an hour ago, maybe, but whatever. He could deal with running on reserve power for a little while.

Due to his unique ability, Eren rapidly used up his energy. He was narcoleptic and diabetic, so he had to be careful to monitor himself when he used his power. This was one of the reasons why he rarely transformed entirely, and instead only partially grew massive limbs. It was tedious, but safer on his body and for everyone around him. Nobody wanted a fifteen meter monster crashing into skyscrapers, no matter the monster's good intentions. The first time he had ever transformed in a densely populated area, he'd nearly killed twelve people. He'd slept for two days afterward.

He probably should check his blood sugar and take his insulin, but food came first because he wanted food really bad, and he'd checked it a few hours ago, so he was probably fine. He passed a drug store, and he paused for a moment. Then he glanced at his phone, and tucked it in the pocket of his backpack, walking slowly into the bland, off-white maze of shelves.

Eren was checking out nicotine patches when the distant sound of screaming piqued his interest. He glanced around wildly, his fingers moving slowly toward his backpack. And then he remembered that Hange had confiscated his uniform. _Fuck_, he thought glumly, glancing around the drugstore hastily. There was a man at the counter, looking a little stunned, and Eren met his terror-filled eyes.

"What's happening?" Eren asked casually, hooking his thumb around the strap of his backpack.

The man's face contorted in vague irritation. "Well, yeesh, kid, I don't—!" A walk-talkie spluttered into life beyond the counter, and a broken, panicked voice gasped, "_Gunshots on seventh floor_."

_Hey_, Eren thought amusedly. _That's where the food court is_. He thought it was funny. If he hadn't been distracted by Hange's awful smoking habit, he could have been up there, already kicking ass. _Except_, he remembered, _I'm in my goddamn civvies_.

Being a hero was less of a choice and more of a necessity. There was no Eren Jaeger without Rogue. See, he'd always been Rogue in some sense, but Hange had been the one who had placed a mask over his eyes, and declared him a hero. That was something he'd needed when he had been younger. He'd needed that optimism, that gentle word that shed light on Eren's potential. _Hero_.

Because being a monster didn't mean he was bad, or anything. It just depended on what path the monstrosity inside Eren took.

And so far, he thought he was being a pretty nice monster, actually.

His fingers were tingling with anticipation as he mulled over what to do. He could just leave it to Hange, or the police. But by then, people could die.

_No_, Eren thought firmly, whirling away from the counter and weaving between the shelves furiously. _No one is going to die_.

He passed a shelf full of children's art supplies, and he grabbed a bottle of green finger paint, tearing off the price tag and slapping into another shelf as he bolted from the store. Outside, chaos had enveloped the entirety of the mall. There were throngs of people leaping toward exits, running down stairs, some were screaming and some were on the phone, and Eren took a deep breath and threw himself into the streams of bodies pushing the way opposite of his destination.

Eren would be able to handle this situation faster than Hange. Hange was much more recognizable, and beyond that, they were human. Eren didn't want to risk Hange's safety over something that he could easily do on his own. Of course, he knew they were more powerful as a team, and he was totally cool with that, but on short notice like this Eren was the one with the power to stop a shooting, not Hange. Eren didn't even know if Hange had their uniform with them, unless it was in the car.

They weren't like, professionals, or anything. It's not like either of them had any how-to guides to super heroing, aside from comic books, which Eren found ill informing. Keeping identities a secret was _way_ harder than it looked, and not to mention all the crazy stunts that just didn't work in real life! Eren had his ability, yes, and he was pretty good at hand-to-hand combat, but he would never be able to scale a building or drop from one even with his ability. He'd probably take the building down, honestly.

Eren tore at the plastic around the cap of the paint bottle as he fought through the stampede of people running down the stairwell. He could hear sirens vaguely in the distance. Eren flicked open the bottle of finger paint, and paused upon the flight of steps leading to the seventh floor. He was suddenly very alone. He could see a figure lurking at the landing, and Eren carefully ducked behind a pillar.

He decided squirting the paint would make too much noise, so he just yanked the entire cap off and scooped a glob of green paint out of the bottle with two fingers. Eren was thinking really only of security cameras, because Hange was very careful not to let the media take pictures of him. No one would recognize him in his civvies, but it was a precaution he needed to take. He was a little jealous of Hange, who had developed a pretty good cover for their secret identity. They were perceived by the media was being female which they said didn't bother them much, but Eren was not so naïve anymore as to believe that. As a hero, the media used male pronouns for them. Thus, no one ever made the connection between Hange Zoë and Polymath, who were both heroes of technology in different senses.

Eren closed his eyes and smeared the paint carefully around the hollows of his eyes, spreading the green goop across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, and he could smell the distinct acidity of the cold, dripping liquid. It was clumping in his eyelashes, plastering his hair to his cheeks. He didn't care much.

He tossed the bottle of paint aside, and it bounced against a step, clacking noisily as green paint coagulated against worn granite. Eren was already running up the steps when the gunman guarding the stairwell turned around.

Eren grabbed hold of his wrist as he moved forward, and he blinked rapidly to dispel the paint from his vision. Then he squeezed his right hand, and gave it a quick, painful twist until a sharp _crack_ spat through the silence, and pain shuddered through Eren's arm like a jolt of electricity pulsating slowly, and then rapidly, crackling and bursting with a sudden life that tingled his nerves and caused his olive-toned skin to split open with a steaming hiss.

The man's eyes momentarily went wide behind his mask, and his gun swerved in Eren's direction momentarily before a mighty, half formed fist came crashing down on him like the hand of god squashing a fly. The man crumpled on impact, and Eren streaked past him before he even hit the ground.

The stairs opened up on the food court, and it might have been a lifesaver to him if he had the chance to actually get food. He listened to the sound of gunshots, his arm throbbing from the mass of nerves bulging from the appendage into the fleshy mass of his Rogue arm. He had two ways to trigger his ability— broken bones triggered a controlled variation, where he could choose what part of his body he wanted to go Rogue, and breaking skin, which triggered the full on Rogue transformation.

Becoming fifteen meters tall was not optimal on the seventh floor of a building. Nor was it particularly great for Eren's health.

Eren spotted a group of people clustered between tables, sitting with their hands over their heads and their eyes on him. _A hostage situation?_ Eren had to frown, and wonder where the logic was in that.

He covered himself with his Rogue arm as gunfire rang out in rapid succession of whooshing bullets. He felt one or two graze his Rogue arm, steam flooding the air upon impact, but it did no damage to his actual body, so he didn't really care. He spotted a few gunmen, who were looking at him vaguely with terror and awe, and he grinned at them broadly.

"Hey!" Eren cried, waving his rather disproportionate right arm in the air wildly. "Recognize me, huh?"

Eren had learned pretty quickly that the only way to act in these situations was carefree. Otherwise he'd over think what he was doing, and it was important that he kept all attention on him. He didn't want any hostages getting hurt.

"Hold on," called a woman, her arm flying out and her chin jerking at one of her lackeys. Her eyes were on Eren, her chin high, and Eren thought perhaps he recognized her. She was vaguely familiar, but there was a mask covering her dark face. Eren tilted his head. He prepared to begin punching out anyone with a gun, but something flickered out of the corner of his eye. Someone standing amongst the sitting hostages.

It was a familiar sort of flicker. It sent a wave of déjà vu flooding through him, as he recalled the troublesome games of hide-and-seek, a boy who had only wanted to go outside for just a few minutes to feel the sun on his skin, the uncanny memory of disembodied blood dribbling effortlessly from an invisible wound and glistening as it hovered in midair, accompanied by distant, breathy sobs that came from nowhere, and came from nothing, and yet erupted with the voice of a miserable child from the corner of a scathingly white room. _Did they beat him_, Eren wondered, _or am I remembering wrong?_

Eren could feel his Rogue arm unraveling, threads of artificial flesh sloughing from bone in a mist of heat and Eren felt his heartbeat accelerate in alarm and excitement and confusion, his eyes roving the crowd of hostages once more to try and find that familiar flicker just one more time. He didn't notice his arm fall away, because he wasn't thinking. He was too busy floundering with this idea that perhaps that flicker could have been the same as the boy from his memory.

He took a wild, dizzy step forward. If only for a moment, he forgot where he was. Remnants of his Rogue arm fell to the ground like glistening red ribbons, chunks of flesh still clinging to a giant steaming bone. He whirled around, his eyes darting desperately around the expansive room, and he fumbled for breath as a thought fluttered through his mind, shouting into an empty ether. _Armin!_

"Where did you…?" Eren's eyes widened as five gunshots split through the air.

Eren didn't feel the sting. He didn't even realize he'd been hit until his blood burst outward from his chest in a glimmering red cascade. It startled him. It made him feel idiotic, and he was suddenly furious at himself for being so weak and vulnerable. He blinked rapidly as the pain finally settled in his chest, rattling his busted ribs and blooming across the front of the Mikky Ekko shirt Hange had gotten for him when they had taken him to that concert the summer before, and Eren was a little pissed because he fucking liked that shirt, and now there was fucking blood on it, and his human blood didn't evaporate like his Rogue blood, and he was just so fucking stupid and he hated himself and everyone around him a little for it. _Fuck_, he thought dizzily, blood sloshing in his mouth as he heard a distant shout. A girl amongst the hostages had jumped to her feet. _I fucked up, I fucked up, oh my god, I fucked up_.

He noticed, as he wobbled on his feet, blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth, that the blood, which had been expelled from his chest due to the gunshots, was now splattered across the air. Eren saw his blood glistening in a spatter of color, suspended by some invisible canvas. Eren's vision was unfocused, but he thought he could see a vaguely human shape amidst the crimson silhouette. Eren blinked rapidly as the world began to flicker around him.

No. Not around him. _Before_ him.

Like a faulty television screen, the sight of a small boy flickered in and out of existence right in front of Eren's eyes. Eren saw the contours of his face as the appeared and disappeared, blood framing his cheeks and smearing across his pale hair. He was wearing a white hood, and that too was stained with flecks of Eren's blood.

Eren knew that he was smiling, and he realized perhaps that looked unusual on a boy who was supposed to be dying.

Armin looked almost the same, as though the years had not touched his child-like appearance, as though time could not touch the innocence in his eyes as they glimmered with unshed tears. Eren could only choke on laughter and blood as he finally collapsed to his knees at Armin Arlelt's feet. Eren was upset, because this wasn't how they were supposed to meet again. Eren had concocted the entire scenario a thousand times. He hadn't accounted for Armin's powers, or Eren's lack of focus.

It occurred to Eren that the shooters might go for Armin, and his heart stuttered in shock. Because his mind had given a vicious command upon the revelation. _Protect Armin_. Eren could feel his body begin to react, but before he could fully transform, a scream split through the air. The scream was louder than any gunshot, and it shuddered and cracked and unfurled like a flag of rage and pain, bearing a crest of shame and shock and sharing none of the blame and simply reaching and rumbling and crashing like waves, and Eren felt the scream in his bones, felt it rattling inside him like a wounded animal against a cage, and he felt it in his heart and felt it in his head and felt it crash against his mouth, sloshing against his tongue, and he felt it in his eyes and in the blood that pooled beneath him as he toppled over in utter shock, breathless and bleeding and broken and bested by foes that he didn't even know, and there was screaming in his head, and screaming all around, and Eren thought perhaps he was screaming too though that was impossible because there was blood filling his mouth, and he was pretty damn sure his lungs were filled with bullets and blood and bits of bones.

The scream imbedded itself inside Eren and festered fast, blooming deadly and darkly, dusting his mind with poison. It was a shock that blasted throughout the entirety of Eren's being, and it was unlike anything he had ever felt before, like someone was in his head and ripping him apart from the inside until there was nothing left but a chilly blank slate, and Eren was scared for that reason as the entire world seemed to shatter at that very moment, a scream still shuddering through the air at a banshee's pitch, and Eren could not keep consciousness anymore.

He drifted into an almost peaceful slumber, with the face of his childhood friend illuminating the darkness that shrouded Eren's mind.

* * *

**Location Unknown**

_2760, A.U.C._

It was very white in the institution. Eren and Armin and Mikasa had once tried to count the colored walls, and they had gotten to six. But they weren't allowed everywhere in the building, so that hindered their progress a little bit. All in all, it was a rather boring little life they had. They had classes, and they had their own rooms, and sometimes they were allowed to watch movies if they were well behaved and didn't bite the doctors when they did their tests.

It was a pretty boring life. A stifling life.

Eren felt as though he was being kept in a cage and being raised for slaughter.

"Don't say that so loud," Armin whispered, his frightfully bright eyes rapidly scanning around them. "They might hear you."

Mikasa agreed sullenly, and Eren scowled at them. "But it's true," he hissed, glaring at the crayons they'd been given. They were told to draw a picture. Eren had drawn the blinding of the Cyclops from the Odyssey, which they were _supposed_ to be reading in class, but Armin was the only one who actually did the work. Eren didn't really understand much of it. "They keep us locked up in here, and for what? Don't you guys miss the outside world?"

"Of course," Armin whispered, hugging his knees to his chest. Mikasa bowed her head, and Eren rounded on her.

"Well," he said furiously, "don't you?"

Mikasa frowned, and she glanced at him. Her pretty, round face was curtained by her long black hair, and she closed her eyes. "Yes," she said mildly. "Of course."

Eren huffed, and let the wax of his crayon build up along the texture of the paper. "Anyways, we're missin' a whole bunch of stuff, nice stuff, like the sunrise. Mom and I used to wake up every day to watch the sunrise." He stopped, and he looked down at his drawing, and he set his crayon down and decided he didn't want to draw anymore.

Mikasa were quiet after that. Armin was too, until he began to sing that dumb nursery rhyme again, and Eren found himself humming along quietly, not knowing the words, and even Mikasa bobbed her head to the lofty, foreign words.

"_Meine H__ä__nde sind verschwunden, ich habe keine H__ä__nde mehr, ei, da sind die H__ä__nde wieder, tralalalalalala_…" He paused for a moment, his voice lilting as he blinked sadly downward. And then, he picked the nursery rhyme up again. "_Meine Nase ist verschwunden_…"

It was before they'd all gotten their powers, back when they still sorta felt like the institution was safe. Back when Eren had still believed in his father.

Eren had to suppose he had been lucky. His procedure had only been a series of shots to the nape of his neck. Eren didn't know why they had chosen him to test that particular serum (if the serums were even different), but he had to suppose they had tested on a few different people and had been unsuccessful until they tried it on him. His father had been present during the procedure, and Eren remembered that it had been the first time he had seen his father in months, and he'd been so excited for that very reason.

What a joke.

"How are you feeling?" his father asked, just before it had started. Eren felt mildly confused.

"Um," he said. "Fine, I guess. Where have you been? What's going on?" He vaguely remembered being hoisted in the man's arms, his arms around his father's neck. His legs had felt very heavy.

His father smiled sadly, and placed a hand on his head, ruffling his hair between long fingers. "Don't worry, Eren," he whispered. "Don't worry."

Well, after that was kinda a blur. As though Eren's memories had become disjointed, fracturing away from a larger, bolder picture that stretched across the massive expanse of his mind. There were gaps in his memory that spanned months. Sometimes he'd have little flashes, like someone had lit a fire in his chest, and now he was left to inhale chips of ice in order to put it out.

Armin was constantly rubbing his newly shaved head, and tentatively asking Eren if it looked bad, and Eren always replied no, though he was lying. He had a scar from the incision line, and Eren liked to touch it to see Armin get all jittery, though Mikasa had yelled at him for that.

"But what about you?" Eren asked her. She was thoughtlessly examining the ends of her hair, never looking at Armin or Eren directly. "Did you get your procedure yet?"

Mikasa shook her head. Armin and Eren exchanged a look. "Really?" Armin asked. "But we've all gotten them by now. Even Annie—"

"I know," Mikasa said, cutting Armin off sharply. She looked at him with a chilly gaze. "Maybe I just don't need one."

"We all need one," Eren said slowly. "It's part of the… the… ugh, what's it again, Armin?"

"Experiment?" Armin looked a little uncomfortable, and Eren wondered if perhaps the boy needed to lie down. He was having dizzy spells lately, but less now, Eren thought.

"Yeah," Eren said, waving idly. "That. I mean, it's not any big deal, or anything, and I think we're okay…"

"Eren," Mikasa hissed. "You were asleep for three months."

"I woke up sometimes," Eren grumbled.

"Eren, they cut into Armin's _brain_," Mikasa grabbed the smaller boy by the arm, and he gave a trembling, agonized scream of shock as his little arm gave a grotesque _crunch_ beneath Mikasa's slender fingers. Eren, upon instinct, lurched forward and shoved himself between his best friends, sending Mikasa toppling to the ground as he shoved her very, very hard.

"What the hell, Mikasa?" Eren snarled. He could hear Armin's quiet, mangled sobs from behind him as the boy cradled his arm to his chest, staring past Eren and at Mikasa with a watery, hopelessly confused gaze.

Mikasa was lying upon the white floor of the common room, staring with mild horror at her hands. Her slender fingers were trembling. "I…" she said breathlessly, her eyes raising to meet Eren's. "I didn't…"

Before Eren could yell at her some more, one of the institution's male doctors came striding up to them, cutting between Eren and Mikasa with a stern expression. "I think that's enough playing for today," said the man, carefully pulling Mikasa to her feet. She stood on wobbly legs, staring at her hands with wide, terrified eyes. The man held her wrist very tightly, studying her as though she had fallen down while running and skinned her knee. "Armin, come here. Let's get you to Dr. Jaeger."

"N-no," Armin gasped, his voice quivering and tears streaking his ashen face. He was cradling his arm to his chest, and Eren felt the urge to wrap his arm around the boy's shoulders to shield him from the doctor. Eren didn't know his name, or he didn't remember it. "No, sir, I-I'm f-fine, I'm—"

"That's enough, Armin," said the doctor steadily, his warm eyes assessing Armin with the gentlest of gazes. Eren realized the man was very young, probably like a teenager, or just out of being a teenager, or something like that, because his face was still pretty round, and he looked nicer than most of the other doctors. "Please come with me."

Armin looked at Eren sadly, and slowly followed the doctor out of the room.

It was never really clear to Eren before their powers manifested that the things going on at the institute could be evil. Previous to the procedures, he had just that they were being treated unfairly, but Eren still believed his father knew best despite his doubts and irritation. But then Mikasa had hurt Armin. Mikasa, who Eren sought to be the rock in his world, had harmed their friend, and he had almost damned her for that. She had avoided him and Armin for weeks and weeks, and when she appeared to class she often had bandages wrapped around her knuckles so thickly that she appeared the barely be able to hold her pen.

It wasn't until Armin's powers manifested that Eren began to realize what was truly going on. The experiment they were part of, it wasn't just data and research. It was variables, and those variables were them. They weren't taking part in any experiment. They _were_ the experiment.

* * *

_In introduction, I would like to say two things._

_One, happy birthday to Steph, and happy belated birthday to Saro. _

_Two, I hate myself for this._

_So much. _


	2. ever faithful

_**semper fidelis**_

**Manhattan, New York**

_a.d. iv Kalendas Septembres, 2766 A.U.C._

She was painfully aware of the obscurity surrounding her memories. She was sometimes angry, because her memories were all she had left of her family, and she felt as though she was peering through an old, dusty window of a dilapidated house, cobwebs glimmering in her eyes, and a mighty crack spider-webbing across the grime caked glass. She remembered some things clearer than others. She remembered the day she broke Armin's arm, the feeling of his fragile bone crunching like a dead leaf between her fingers. She remembered the sound he had made, the agonized whimpering of a boy who had never done anyone any wrong.

She had never been given any procedure or surgery to acquire her strength. There were some vague memories of Dr. Jaeger asking her some questions, questions she could not recall, and then smiling at her and muttering about how she was a wonderful scientific anomaly. Mikasa had sat quietly on the check-up table, playing idly with the thin sanitation paper beneath her, and she had wondered what that meant.

"This is Levi," Dr. Jaeger said a few days after the preliminary testing of her powers. Mikasa had been told to stay away from Armin, and though on the inside her heart had given a shudder, and she was surprised at how broken she felt when she realized she would not be able to apologize or comfort the boy. Eren wouldn't talk to her at all because of it, so she just avoided both of them to save herself from more heartache.

They had taken her to a room she had never been in before, some kind of gymnasium with all sorts of weights and mats and bars lining the walls and floor. Mikasa had felt a certain degree of curiosity, because they did not have gym classes at the institution for some reason. The lone man in the room had been doing a series of complicated looking flips on the high bar, and Mikasa had watched with mild awe as he'd caught himself easily, his palms clamping against the bar with a clap of white dust coughing into the air upon impact, and suddenly he was twisting again, airborne and flipping fluidly as he landing on his feet at the sight of them.

The man had given Dr. Jaeger a scathing look, and Mikasa's eyes had wandered from his face to the intricately inked tattoo that seemed to flutter with life at the subtle twitch of the man's bared back muscles. Mikasa recognized that the tattoo was of wings, a painstakingly perfect set of overlapping blue and white wings. Mikasa's fingers had closed around the cloth around her wrist subconsciously, which hid the tattoo her mother had given her as a child.

When Levi had spotted Mikasa, his scathing look had melted into something rather blank and uncertain. He'd snatched a shirt from one of the glossy blue mats that covered to ground and yanked it over his head, wandering over the Dr. Jaeger silently.

"You shouldn't bring your kid to work," Levi said, his voice a vaguely chilly monotone. Mikasa had been a little confused, because Dr. Jaeger was not her father, nor did he pretend to be. He cared about her, yes, Mikasa could sense that, but she didn't consider him any sort of substitute for the father she had lost.

"Levi, this is Mikasa," Dr. Jaeger said, his hand resting against the crown of Mikasa's head as she stared up at Levi. "She's like you."

_She's like you_. That had been the point where alarms had gone off in Mikasa's mind. She looked up at Levi, and she realized something with a cold and numb thought whistling through her mind. _This experiment is bigger than us_. And for a moment she felt the urge to whirl around and run away, run toward Eren and beg him to talk about going outside again.

Levi had looked at her, and she could sense he had the same thought. His hollow blue eyes had sparked with something furious, and his brow had furrowed as he'd stared at her face.

"Excuse me?" Levi asked quietly, never looking away from Mikasa's face. She felt uncomfortable very suddenly.

"She's like you," Dr. Jaeger repeated. "Just like you, really. Do you mind if we run some blood tests to determine—"

"We're not related," Levi cut in firmly. "What the fuck—" He broke off, and glanced down at Mikasa with a grimace. "— I mean… frick… do you mean by _she's like me_?"

"She has the same readings as you," Dr. Jaeger said. "You said you were nine when your power manifested, yes? Well, she's just the same. Same power, same age. A completely natural progression of enhanced strength, and possibly stamina, though we can't be sure until we test her capacity to—"

"Stop." Levi had looked very angry. Mikasa had felt his anger, and she would continue to feel it every time Levi looked at her, because his rage was cyclical and immense, and there was no escaping it. "Just stop. Why the fuck do you have a child involved in all this? Where are her parents? Why are you collecting data from her?"

"Levi, calm down," Dr. Jaeger said. "You've been made aware that you're not the only subject here."

"I'm a fucking adult!" Levi's arm whipped out as he pointed at Mikasa with a vicious amount of accusation. "I consented to this! Did she? Did she tell you could poke and prod at her until she broke? Did she sign any papers, did she have any choice? Does she even _know_?"

"Levi," Dr. Jaeger said, a sharpness in his voice that Mikasa had never heard before. "From now on, you are going to teach Mikasa how to control her strength."

"I don't hurt kids," Levi said, and it was a strong hiss of emotion that emerged from his lips, punctuated by the widening of his hollow eyes.

"You don't have a choice," Dr. Jaeger replied. Mikasa blinked up at him in shock, and he smiled down at her sadly. "Don't worry, Mikasa. This is for your own good, and everyone else's. If you can't control your strength, then you'll just hurt more people like you hurt Armin. Do you want that to happen?"

"No," Mikasa said. She looked up suddenly, feeling desperate, and she gazed at Levi imploringly. "No. Please, no."

Levi had watched her, his expression stony. "Tch," he'd scoffed, averting his gaze.

Dr. Jaeger smiled at her, and ruffled her hair. "I'll let you two get to know each other, then," he said, turning away from them.

Mikasa watched him, and she called after him with a small, trembling voice. "Dr. Jaeger?" The man turned back to look at her, his glasses gleaming. "Am I allowed to speak to Armin?"

Dr. Jaeger sighed, and adjusted his glasses as he shook his head. "Mikasa, you know the situation… is delicate," said the man. And Mikasa did know, though she couldn't quite recall why. "But if you prove to me that you're making progress…"

"I will," Mikasa swore.

He smiled. "Then of course," Dr. Jaeger said. He turned away, and Mikasa was left to Levi.

The man watched her for a moment, and then pointed to the wall of weights. "Pick up the heaviest one and bring it over to me."

Mikasa eyed him warily, but obliged for the sake of being able to reconcile with Armin.

To say she knew or understood Levi during her time at the institution would be a lie. She merely tolerated him at the time, and allowed him to teach her how to control her newfound strength. Other than sparring, there was no physical interaction between them, and they only exchanged a few words every week. Mikasa didn't care about Levi, but he was at the very least helpful.

"Do you even try when you fight me?" Mikasa asked one day. She remembered that he had been wrapping up his knuckles, because he was going to teach her how to pull her punches.

"Nope," Levi said, tossing her the roll of gauze at her. She had caught it, and frowned, feeling inadequate and silly very suddenly. She stared at the gauze, and slowly wrapped it around her hands, intentionally fumbling and winding it the wrong way. Levi glared at her, and she could sense his irritation. He'd wandered over to her slowly, shaking his head with a sever degree of incredulity, as though she was the most idiotic person he had ever met. "I thought I taught you how to wrap—"

He caught her wrist before her fist could connect with his jaw, but he could not block her knee as it collided with his stomach. She blinked as his body buckled a little, a slight grunt of pain escaping his lips. She stared up at him, allowing herself to feel a little glimmer of pride before Levi backhanded her across the face so hard she went skidding across the floor.

Levi had begun to show an actual interest in fighting her after that, though.

Mikasa had wanted an escape so badly, but she it had never occurred to her that Levi would be the one to make it possible. And she still did not forgive him for it. She knew that he was responsible for the institution's collapse, because he had told her not long after rescuing her, and to this very day she blamed him for being the separation between her and her family.

Levi had explained to her, after finding her frantically stumbling through a blazing hall in search for Eren and promptly grabbing her, that he and another man had planned an escape from the institution with the intention of crippling the entire program. Mikasa had been enraged, but the smoke had strangled her to the point where she could barely wriggle out of his grasp, let alone punch him.

Anyway, that had all been about five years ago. Her clearest memories were of Levi, for some reason, and Mikasa had to suppose it was because she spent a lot of time with him before and after escaping. He'd become her only means of survival, and though she had a bad track record of running away to find Eren and Armin, she always came back, and he never minded, and Mikasa decided that there were worse people in the world than Levi.

A few days before, Mikasa had been sitting in the kitchen of her and Levi's tiny apartment in downtown Chicago. She'd grabbed the box of cocoa puffs from beside Levi's bowl, and she'd fished through the box with her bare hand, staring at Levi expectantly, as she did every morning, as she popped a few chocolaty spheres into her mouth. He looked up at her sharply, and snatched the box from her fingers, whacking her over the head with the rolled up newspaper.

"Get a bowl, you fucking pig," Levi had snarled at her. Mikasa obliged without comment. She did this every morning to check how lucid Levi was. Mikasa began to notice that whenever he was feeling really, really low he didn't notice when she did something unsanitary. It was then that Mikasa had to begin to worry, because Levi had been clean now for about three years.

"What did I miss?" Mikasa asked, swirling her cocoa puffs around in the milk until it became a faint, powdery brown color.

"Eight muggers, three rapists, one thief," Levi said. He took a sip of his tea and unfolded the paper, while Mikasa began to focus on the television. "Did you finish your paper?"

"Mhm," Mikasa hummed, her spoon protruding from her lips a she took the remote and turned up the volume on the news. Levi grimaced, because, as he put it, it was too early to listen to how horrible the world was. Mikasa pulled her spoon from her lips, never looking at Levi. "So now I can go on patrol again."

"I guess."

Mikasa glared at him. He had forbidden her from vigilantism, which was a pastime they had both taken up post-institution, whenever he found out that she'd been neglecting her homework. Which, thanks to the internet, was pretty often nowadays. He told her that she had to go to college, or else he was kicking her out, and she had replied that that was fine, because she could easily live on her own, and Levi had told her that she was bluffing because she'd never truly tried, and she was definitely going to college, and that was the end of that discussion.

They had decided to take up vigilantism because after a few months on the run, they had both agreed to look further into what the institution was actually for. When Mikasa had told Levi that she could barely remember her life before the institute, he had gotten very angry, like he tended to whenever Mikasa talked about the other kids who had been there. Apparently Levi had not known the extent of which the experiment had gone. After some persuading he had agreed to help her track down the other children, if only because he thought their powers could be dangerous.

Levi had told Mikasa that they would use their real names, and if anyone came after them, they'd deal with it then. But no one had ever come after them.

Maybe no one was looking.

Mikasa dropped her spoon, and it clattered against her bowl. On the television, someone was interviewing a physicist. For a moment, Mikasa had thought she had heard the name _Eren Jaeger_.

Levi looked up. His eyes moved toward the television, and Mikasa knew he had heard it too. Mikasa quickly grabbed the remote again and turned the television up some more, her heart pounding rapidly in her chest, and she clenched the remote in both hands as the physicist laughed, at whatever the interviewer had just said.

"_Oh, yeah_," said the physicist. "_I did it last year, because it's gotten to the point where I don't think I can imagine my life without him in it, and I only waited because it was always Eren's choice, y'know_?"

Mikasa held her breath. _Eren_, she thought, her cheeks flushing with excitement. _Eren, my best friend, my Eren, alive and happy. God, please, please, please_…

"_How did he come into your care, Ms. Zo__ë_?" the interviewer asked.

The physicist smiled. "_Call me Hange_," they said. "_Please. And, um, well I actually found him about five years ago on the side of the road_."

The interviewer laughed. "_Like a puppy_?"

"_He's exactly like a puppy_," Hange said, beaming. "_He's gonna pitch a fit that I'm talking about him like this, because he doesn't like it, but he's an amazing kid, and I'm really lucky to have him in my life_."

"Levi," Mikasa said as the interviewer returned to physics. "Who is that?"

"Ask google," Levi said, taking a sip of his tea and watching the television. Mikasa scowled at him, and pulled her phone closer to her. "Looks like a big shot."

"Hange Zoë," Mikasa said. "She has her own website."

"That's sickening." Levi took another sip of tea, studying the television with a tilt of his head.

"She apparently got really rich over the last few years because of the dozens of groundbreaking inventions she's patented," Mikasa said, scrolling through the page idly. "People have been comparing her to the likes of Edison and Einstein."

"Edison stole from Tesla, and Einstein was responsible for the atomic bomb," Levi said dully.

"Edison still introduced the light bulb whether you like it or not," Mikasa said. "And Einstein felt bad about that."

"Doesn't bring back the millions of lives he was responsible for taking."

Mikasa frowned. They'd gotten into this morality fight a few times before. It was always the same. "It ended a war," Mikasa said.

"Yeah," Levi said, glancing at her. "I didn't say it was wrong."

Mikasa's head snapped away from Levi's, and she shook her head in disbelief. "I don't understand you," she declared.

"Ditto, shitface."

Mikasa turned her eyes back toward her phone. "Oh," Mikasa said. "Apparently they mostly prefer not to be referred to with gendered pronouns."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means don't call them "she" or "he", just call them "they"," Mikasa said, continuing to read along.

"Oh," Levi said. He took another sip of his tea, and glanced at the television.

Mikasa continued to read until she found what she was looking for. "Levi," Mikasa said, never looking up from the phone. Her eyes were widening as she read. _"'— in 2008, Zo__ë__ took in an orphaned child they'd found while driving, and in 2012 they'd adopted Eren Jaeger as their son.'_"

"Well," Levi said, setting down his teacup. "Shit."

"Levi," Mikasa said, twisting in her seat to face him. Her heart was thudding so hard that she could hear it thundering, and feel it against her throat. She felt a little dizzy, and a little giddy, and she thought she might throw her arms around Levi's shoulders and hug him because she was just so happy, and she couldn't contain it. "Levi!"

"I heard," Levi said, glaring at her.

"They live in Manhattan," Mikasa said, rising in her feet, She ran her fingers through her hair, and looked around her hurriedly. "We have to go. Right now. Let's go."

"We are not going to Manhattan this fucking second, Mikasa," Levi said in a firm, irritated voice.

"Why not?" Mikasa whirled around to face him, towering over him as he sat. "You can do it. You're strong enough."

"I'm not carrying you to Manhattan, you crazy bitch," Levi said with a scoff. "Just… sit down. It's your first week of school, and you're already behind."

"Don't pretend to be my fucking father," Mikasa snapped. He looked at her with his dull gaze, and passive expression, and Mikasa wanted to punch him. "If you cared about me at all, you'd get your ass up and take me to Manhattan to see Eren _this fucking second_."

"Well I guess I don't care about you." Levi set down his teacup, and bowed his head. "Go get dressed. I'm taking you to school."

"I'm not going to school," Mikasa said. She took a step back on impulse when he stood, and she could almost feel his satisfaction. "And you can't take me to school anyway, you don't have a car."

"I'll walk you to the bus stop."

"Are you really that determined for me not to see Eren?" Mikasa asked furiously.

"Are you really so fucking stupid," Levi asked, looking up at her sharply, "that you can't give me a chance to think before you make your goddamn holy judgment?"

Mikasa stood, stunned and a little embarrassed, and she looked at Levi with wide eyes. "You're thinking about it?" she asked.

"Just go to school," Levi said. "It won't kill you to just go for today. Let me take care of this."

And for once, Mikasa did what she was told.

School had been hell that day because she couldn't focus on anything beyond writing her name, and even then her first period teacher had to give her a pen and paper because she'd forgotten her bag at home. She'd been pulled after class three consecutive times by her English, Biology, and Spanish teachers, who had all asked her if everything was alright at home. She had said yes, and asked if she could go now, because she really didn't want to be late for class. It wasn't until her Algebra teacher, who she'd had in seventh grade, had pulled her aside that she really began to realize how delicate her situation was.

"Mikasa," the man said. "Listen to me. If your father isn't… right… you need to tell someone."

"He's not my father," Mikasa stated, as she usually did when someone made that misconception. "And he's fine. And even if he wasn't, I'd deal with it."

"Mikasa, that's the point," the man said with a sigh. "You're only fifteen. You shouldn't _have_ to deal with it."

"With all due respect, sir," Mikasa said dryly, "I may not hold Levi in the highest regard, but as my legal guardian he's actually competent, so I'd appreciate it if you didn't judge him too harshly."

Her teacher studied her for a few moments, and sighed. "I don't want you to fall behind, Mikasa. Try to focus."

"Yes, sir," Mikasa said dully. "Can I go to lunch, now?"

"Yeah, go on."

She'd been sitting at her lunch table for all of five minutes alone before a tray dropped in front of her. She blinked up at Jean Kirschstein, a boy who had sought Mikasa out the first day of school the year previous and kind of just followed her around until she asked him if he wanted to sit with her at lunch. She sometimes thought he had a speech impediment, but she realized that he never stuttered in class or around other people, so she figured he just probably had trouble talking around girls. He didn't stutter very much anymore, thankfully.

"I can't wait to get out of here," Jean declared. Mikasa watched him with a bored expression, and began to tear at her french-fries anxiously, never with the intention of eating them. "I'm going to get the fuck out of here, and get a nice scholarship somewhere that isn't a shithole."

Mikasa nodded idly. She knew his plans, and she knew they'd probably work out. Jean was a gymnast, to the point where he was nearly an acrobat. Cornell was already taking interest in him, as were a few other universities. Mikasa took classes with him sometimes, but she was usually busy, and he usually didn't need them.

"I'm serious," Jean said, his body hunching forward, his head tilting to catch her attention.

"Mhm," Mikasa said.

Jean gave a mighty sigh, and he said furiously, "You can do it too, you know, if you practiced more!"

"I'm busy."

"With _what_?" Jean's eyes darted across her face, but she did not look up from dissecting her fries. "Y-you can… I mean, I'm free on Saturday, if you wanna… uh… pr-practice with me, or—"

"I'm going out of town this weekend," Mikasa said, dropping her fry and scooping up another one as another tray appeared beside Jean's. A gentle little laugh spooked her out of her daze, and she looked up at the tanned, freckled face of Marco Bodt.

"Oh, not this again," Marco said, sitting down beside Jean. "You're supposed to practice with me this weekend, remember? I needed help with my Gainer like, last week."

"Shit." Jean blinked at Marco, and his eyes flew wide. "I blew you off. Why didn't you fuckin' remind me, or something, oh my god?"

"You were busy," Marco said, his smile dim. Marco was a nice boy, with a warm face and warm eyes, and Mikasa had always found his presence comforting in comparison to Jean, who had always made her just a little uncomfortable. Marco and Jean always reminded her of being around Armin and Eren, which was probably why she had never pushed them away. "Anyways, you're going out of town, Mikasa?"

"Yeah." Mikasa wiped off her hands on a napkin. "Soon."

"Where?" Jean blurted. He looked a little frantic. "For how long?"

"New York City," Mikasa said. "And… I don't know. It depends."

"New York!" Marco's eyes glittered. "Why are you going there? Do you have family there, or something?"

"Yes," Mikasa said quietly.

"Wait," Jean said, blinking at her. "I thought all your family was—"

"Jean," Marco hissed. Mikasa glanced at him, and nodded gratefully. "Sorry, Mikasa."

"No, it's fine." She looked to Jean. "He's not really my family. But he's the closest thing I have."

"Even closer than the little grandpa?" Jean asked. Jean had a bad habit of making fun of Levi, which Mikasa found amusing, but he had once insulted him accidentally to his face, and Levi had almost hit him, but to prevent some legal altercations Mikasa had done it instead. Mikasa had later apologized to Jean, bringing him an icepack for his jaw, and revealing how delicate her situation with Levi was. One wrong move, and Mikasa would be put into foster care. That was the reality of it.

"Infinitely closer," Mikasa murmured.

"Well that's good!" Marco gasped. "Though, you won't miss school, will you? No offense, Mikasa, but I really don't think you can afford—"

"It's the beginning of the year," Mikasa said. "I'll be fine."

"Yeah, she'll be fine," Jean said, waving offhandedly. "Totally. Anyway, did you guys see that video of Nio?"

Mikasa snapped to attention, a heavy chill flooding her chest as the name collided with her lungs, making it a little difficult to breathe. Nio. That's right. That's what she'd called herself when Levi had told her to make up a moniker. She was very careful not to be seen, but even if she was, her mask completely covered her face. She and Levi had agreed to wear masks bearing the faces of the Nio guardians, which she knew from vague memories of her mother's Buddhism lessons. Mikasa had styled her entire vigilante persona after the Nio guardians, while Levi kind of just looked like he hadn't tried very hard. Which, he hadn't. Both of them had assembled their personas through a series of thrift shops.

"There's a video of Nio?" Marco asked, blinking at Jean with wide eyes. "Wow, I didn't think anyone could catch her."

"Me either," Mikasa said dryly.

"Yeah, she's like, beating up this drug dealer, and a guy recorded her from the window of his shop." Jean pulled out his phone, and he continued to speak as he flicked through it. "It's so weird, because she doesn't look like she's got any powers or anything, like Rogue or Freiheit, but she just beats him to shit. I mean, I could do something like this if I wanted to."

"Yes," Mikasa said, eying Jean suspiciously. "And you could also be killed."

Marco looked between them, and he smiled with very little warmth. "Hey, Polymath hasn't got any powers," Marco reminded. "They do fine."

"Yeah, Polymath has all those gadgets, and shit," Jean said, turning his phone toward them. Mikasa could see the hazy video quality of a shaky phone recording. "Like Batman."

Mikasa hummed in response, and watched the video of herself in full costume. As Nio, she wore a tight black shirt they had found, which was made out of heavy Kevlar, and beneath that was a light, high-collared cotton blouse that ruffled in vague resemblance to the veins protruding from the necks of the popular depictions of the Nio guardians. She wore a golden band around her shoulders which connected at her chest, and attached to it was a sheer strip of fabric that framed her abdomen and fell to her waist, splitting in two and connecting at the base of her back where the scabbard of her sword was located. Strips of white and pale blue fabric were fastened around her hips, knotted tightly and billowing to her knees in a ripple of cloth. Because the cloths were only connected at her waist they rippled and shifted freely, allowing more mobility for her legs. One silvery hued satin strip was attached to the pummel of her sword, which she often grabbed onto mid-fight to manipulate and toss at whoever got in her way. It had only been used against her a handful of times, and even then she only had a scar or two as a result.

"Wow, look at that," Marco said, pointing to the swift spiral of Mikasa's body as she twisted the silver cloth around the drug dealer's neck and yanked with a reverse grip on her sword's hilt. "I don't think you could do that, Jean."

"Is that a challenge, Marco?" Jean asked, his voice low. Marco blinked at Jean, and he choked on his laughter.

"Um, no," Marco said. "Don't try it. On anyone. Please." Marco focused on the video again, and his eyes widened. "Whoa, was that a triple salto?"

"Yeah!" Jean pulled the phone back to him to look at the video, and Mikasa felt the urge to grab it and chuck it as far away as possible. "This is what I'm saying! I could totally do that!"

"While kicking a guy's ass?" Marco asked, smiling weakly. "Jean, you're great, yes, but do you have the focus to—"

"I am dead serious, I'll make a bet with you right now," Jean said, pausing the video. "I can definitely do exactly what Nio did."

"Nio was clearly trained differently than you," Mikasa said icily. "If you were smart, you'd realize that, and not try to mimic her."

Jean looked at her with wide eyes. Marco bowed his head, and said nothing, while Jean continued to gawk as though Mikasa had insulted him. "But…" Jean pocketed his phone, and he shook his head. "I know I can do it. That move is like… that's something I've mastered. Hell, didn't I teach both of you how to do it?"

Mikasa looked down at her tray, and she scowled. This wasn't going well. And she couldn't let either of them find out that she was Nio. That would be disastrous. "I think Nio is stupid," Mikasa declared. Both Marco and Jean looked at her sharply, Jean with confusion, and Marco with horror and awe. "She gets into all these fights, and it's not like she's bettering the world or anything by it. That drug dealer got out on bail a few days after she put him in jail. Her entire crusade is pointless, and frankly, I think people should stop paying attention to her."

"Oh," Jean said. He leaned back, and exchanged a glance with Marco. "Wow. I… I didn't realize you—"

"It's just my opinion," Mikasa cut in, taking a bite of one of her fries and chewing thoughtfully. "But vigilantes are pretty incompetent. Beating up a bad person and putting them away does not equate to goodness. It just… makes it seem like there's a balance where there clearly is not." Mikasa closed her eyes. "I don't think we should support them."

Mikasa did not look at them, or speak again for the rest of the lunch period. She left them to think about her words, and hoped she'd swayed their judgment somehow. She didn't want Jean and Marco making a huge mistake, and trying to follow in her footsteps, or something like that. She was only a vigilante because she wanted to find Eren and Armin, and that had gotten her some unwanted attention.

At the end of the day, she'd gotten text from Levi telling her not to take the bus. When she'd exited the school, there was a yellow Volkswagen Beetle that looked like it had been ripped right out of a 1970's intersection. Mikasa stood for a moment, the car looking vaguely familiar, and she continued to stare at it even after someone rolled the window down and called to her across the busy street, "Move your ass, you little brat!"

Mikasa stood for a few moments longer, and she flipped her middle finger up at him with an impassive expression. A few people glanced at her, but no one seemed to notice or care about the vulgarities. She noticed, as she moved closer to the car, that there was a woman in the front seat verbally berating not Levi, but an unfamiliar man who was sneering at her in response. From the backseat, Levi emerged, and he took her bag and tossed it into the car.

"Levi," Mikasa said, blinking down at him. "What—"

"Get in the fucking car," Levi said. Mikasa stared at him for a moment, and obliged. There were three duffle bags stuffed on the floor of the car, and Mikasa had to prop her feet up on one of them to fit. Levi got into the car beside her, and with that the car was off. Mikasa stared at the duo in the front seats, who were bickering noisily about manners, or something.

"Um," Mikasa said cautiously, glancing at Levi. His eyes were already out the window, staring into something far off, as though he could see the horizon somewhere between the high-reaching buildings around them. "Who…?"

"Oh, I guess you don't really remember me, huh?" The woman glanced in the rearview mirror, and Mikasa could see her smiling. She had short strawberry-blonde hair curled into loose ringlets around her ears and jaw, and warm brown eyes. Mikasa vaguely recollected seeing her before, but Mikasa memory was, admittedly, not the best. "It's Petra Ral. You two lived with me a few years ago."

"Oh," Mikasa said, her eyes widening. "Yes, I remember you. You cut your hair."

"So did you," Petra said with a short laugh. She jerked her thumb at the man in the passenger's seat. "This is my friend Auruo. He's a weapons specialist."

"I got your sword from him," Levi informed her, never looking away from the window.

"Oh," Mikasa said blankly. "Thanks. I guess. I like it a lot."

"Hm," Auruo said, twisting to look at her. He studied her face for a few moments before frowning. He seemed to have a perpetual frown, really. "Have you ever killed anyone with it?"

"Auruo!" Petra cried. "You don't ask people that!"

"I'm just curious," Auruo scoffed. "It's an honest question. I've heard a lot of rumors about Nio and Freiheit, and I want to know what's true and what's not."

"Mikasa has never killed anyone," Levi said dully. Mikasa sat awkwardly under Auruo's stare.

"Well, that's a relief," Auruo drawled. "Thought we were harboring criminals, or something."

"I'm going to kick you out," Petra growled. "I swear to god, if you don't shut up right now, I'm kicking you out right now and you can _walk_ to New York."

"Calm down, Petra," Auruo said, throwing his hands up and laughing shakily. "I was joking."

"You're being an asshole," Petra said. "To a fifteen year old girl, might I add, which makes you a _scumbag_."

"It's okay," Mikasa said. She looked at Levi with wide eyes. "We're really going to New York?"

Petra laughed, and Auruo gave another little scoff, and Levi glanced at her. "Of course," Petra said. "We've gotta find your friend, right?"

"Right…" Mikasa quickly buckled her seatbelt, and she nodded eagerly. "Right."

The rest of their journey had been rather uneventful. Petra and Auruo bickered, and Levi sat quietly beside Mikasa, never giving her a sign of what he was thinking. Levi was bad at emoting, and Mikasa knew that even when he tried to be affectionate it just came out weird. She took what she could get with him. And right now, she felt as though the man had bestowed upon her the most affectionate thing he possibly could manage without being intimate. And it made her truly happy.

Petra Ral was a skilled hacker, who had apparently had helped Nio and Freiheit out more than Mikasa had realized. Petra apologized profusely for letting the video of Nio leak onto the internet, because usually she was more on top of those things. Auruo supplied her and Levi with all their weapons, somehow, and for that Mikasa could tolerate him. Mikasa was curious as to how exactly Levi had met them, but she never asked. They ended up crashing at an apartment in Brooklyn that belonged to two guys, Gunther Schultz and Erd Gin.

Mikasa was informed that Levi had once been in a gang with all these people. In hindsight, it made sense. But Mikasa couldn't help but stare at Petra, who was laughing and complaining about Grad School over a beer, and wonder how old she had been when she'd been in this gang. Mikasa was then informed that Auruo was barely twenty one. _Does Levi just surround himself with people younger than him?_ Mikasa wondered. _Does he get a kick out of it?_

For the next day or so they tried just about everything. Getting a meeting with Hange Zoë, staking out their apartment building, even hacking. But not even Petra could get past Hange's security system, which seemed to trouble the entire gang. Even Levi. _What if something's wrong?_ Mikasa thought. _What if they're not really helping Eren at all?_

Mikasa was growing irritable and paranoid. Someone in the apartment seemed to notice, because by their third day in Manhattan, Petra had declared that she and Mikasa were going to go shopping. Mikasa initially refused, but Petra had convinced her that going out and looking for Eren was far more productive than sitting inside and waiting for a solution.

"You really don't remember me much," Petra said solemnly. She had braided her bangs back into her short hair, allowing Mikasa to see just how warm and bright her eyes were. The woman was very pretty, and she seemed to exude confidence and understanding. Mikasa wished her presence was more of a regularity.

"I do," Mikasa said. "I just don't remember you well."

Petra shrugged. "That's fine," she laughed, shrugging her tiny shoulders. They were walking around a mall, and had been for about an hour, though neither of them had bought anything. "I was still not quite on my feet back then. I lived with my dad. Do you remember him?"

"No…" Mikasa said quietly. "Sorry."

"No, don't be," Petra said with a sigh. "I love him to death, but wow. Did he give me shit for that one. I had to make up a story about how I knew Levi, but then my dad found out that I lied about Levi's age, and he thought we were—" Petra flushed suddenly, and she shook her head. "I mean, I had to tell my dad Levi was asexual to shut him up."

"Wait," Mikasa said, staring down at Petra. "What?"

Petra looked up at Mikasa with large eyes. "Wait, you didn't know?" The woman's mouth open, and she shook her head furiously. "It's not a big deal, but don't tell him I told you, because he gets really uncomfortable whenever sex is involved—"

"Why?" Mikasa was stunned. She'd known Levi for six years, and she had never known this fact about him. But now, upon this sudden revelation, she looked back and recalled uncomfortable silences when anyone ever had the guts to make advances toward him, and the unique brutality Levi always seemed to have toward rapists and pimps.

"I'm not really sure," Petra said slowly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "It's not my business knowing."

"Well," Mikasa said, "I think it's my business knowing."

"Ask him," Petra said. "He might tell you."

Mikasa glanced away with a frown. "Tch," she hissed. Petra gave a little laugh, and she shook her head in disbelief.

"You're a lot like him," Petra said with a smile. Mikasa blinked in surprise. "And not in that cheap way Auruo tries out, but like, you're actually genuinely just so much like him it's a little scary."

"Oh," Mikasa said. She didn't really know how else to respond. She studied her surroundings, and frowned a little. She didn't think she and Levi were much alike, but she had to suppose that living with him for so long had had a chameleon effect on her. It didn't matter much, though. It was probably better that they acted alike.

"I don't mean it in a bad way," Petra continued, shoving her hands into the pockets of her high-waisted jean shorts. Petra was astonishingly stylish, and Mikasa had been reluctant to admit her attraction to the clothing the woman had brought with her. And Mikasa didn't like fashion. She just liked clothes. Cheap clothes. Hoodies, and cardigans, and long skirts, and faded jeans. But Petra had a sense of style that was unparalleled to anyone else, as though she could throw on a tablecloth and have the confidence to walk down the street in it. She'd pull it off too. She was just that type of person. "Trust me, I don't. I think Levi is the most amazing person I've ever met. And from what I've seen, you have a lot of his good qualities, and not many of his bad ones."

"All his qualities are bad," Mikasa said bitterly. Petra barked a laugh, and Mikasa frowned.

"I guess to you, yeah," Petra said, smiling brightly. "But you grew up with him. You should have seen him when I knew him." She shook her head, glancing around the mall with a sad shake of her head. "He was a mess."

"More of a mess than he is now?"

Petra bounced idly on the balls of her feet. "He told me he slipped up a few years ago," Petra said, glancing up at Mikasa. Mikasa stayed quiet, and her mind was filling up with the distant, hazy images of a dim apartment building, smaller and dingier than the one they now owned despite all attempts to tidy it. She remembered vaguely asking what the pills had been for, and Levi had never quite been honest with her, but she had been quick enough to notice his dependence on them. Levi had been clean for about three years because of an incident that neither of them liked to remember, but it was flooding back to her with a vivid burst, as though someone had wiped down the dusty window into the hollows of her memory and illuminated the dank and dreary catacombs where she kept all her unwelcomed and unwanted experiences.

She recalled tears, the first and last time she had ever cried over Levi, and screaming, and frantic rattling of a very still body, and she recalled checking for a pulse and finding one with a bewildered, breathless relief, and clinging to the knowledge that Levi was alive, and Levi was strong, stronger than her, stronger than _everyone_, even though she hated to admit it, and so Mikasa had punched him. She hefted Levi over her shoulders, carried him into the bathroom, propped him up against the tub, and punched him until her knuckles cracked open, and his lips had torn against his teeth and her bones, and his nose had bent, and blood and splashed against the grimy, off-white porcelain tub, and she'd punched him until his hollow blue eyes had cracked open dazedly, staring up at her without recognition or regard, simply gazing and not quite seeing.

Mikasa and Levi had been through a lot together. But there had never been an instance in their relationship where Mikasa had loved him with such a hopeless, naïve intensity, and loathed him so fervently as she did in that moment when she had to call 911, and been talked through forcing Levi to regurgitate opiates into a toilet.

"Slipped up," Mikasa repeated dully. "He almost killed himself. He was stupid and careless."

Petra paused, her expression crumpling as she gazed at Mikasa's face. Mikasa glanced back at her, and it was clear that she had struck a cord. "That's very ignorant to say," Petra said softly. "Mikasa, Levi has been struggling with substance abuse for years. Even the strongest man in the world has a weakness, and sometimes he needs support too."

Mikasa wasn't sure how to respond to that. She knew, of course, that Levi had a lot of problems. She had a lot of problems too. But it had never occurred to her that Levi's problems had pre-dated the institute. She had always assumed the opiates had been to ease whatever pain the experiments had put him through. But Petra made it out to seem like there had always been something in Levi's life that he'd tried to numb. And Mikasa couldn't help a vague, squirming concern knotting in her stomach as she glanced away guiltily.

"I was a twelve year old responsible for a thirty year old," Mikasa said quietly. "I'm allowed to be bitter about that."

Petra smiled, and Mikasa was stunned when the woman placed a hand on her arm. "Why don't we get something to eat?" Petra offered, glancing around quickly. "You can tell me a little bit more about his slip up."

"I don't want to," Mikasa said, shrugging Petra off. "It doesn't even matter. He's clean now."

Petra continued to smile, albeit with languid eyes, and she nodded. "Okay," Petra said. "We'll talk about something else. Like what it's like to be a superhero."

"I'm not a superhero," Mikasa mumbled, letting the small woman hook her arm around Mikasa's and lead her to an escalator.

"Are you kidding?" Petra laughed easily, as though their previous conversation had not even remotely perturbed her. "I mean, I kind of make it my job to watch out for videos of you. And, Mikasa, you are _definitely_ a superhero." Petra smiled up at her warmly, and Mikasa was stunned by how genuine and kind it was. "At least to me."

Mikasa blinked and looked down at her faded gray cut-off. "Thanks," she said quietly. "I guess."

They ended up getting pizza, and Petra began to talk about Grad School, and the classes she was missing, and Mikasa felt immensely guilty very suddenly. She had not realized that her quest to find Eren had uprooted anyone's life beyond hers and Levi's. But Petra was a real person, with a real life, with so much going for her beyond all of Mikasa's crazy bullshit. Petra was going to teach. Petra was supposed to study abroad next semester in Tokyo. Petra had her life together, had her own apartment, and her own friends, and yet here she was. Helping a stranger find another stranger, because an old friend had called her and asked her to.

_Why can't I be like that?_ Mikasa asked herself, staring at the woman as she explained the dynamics of her field. _Why can't I be normal, and go to college, and live on my own, and never play at capes and cowls again?_

Maybe it was Eren and Armin. Maybe she needed them in order to move on with her life. Maybe Mikasa was so desperate for completion that she couldn't find happiness in anything beyond the family that had been fractured five years before.

Maybe this entire ordeal had given her a glimpse into two possible futures for her. The world where she could be content and happy with the life she was lucky to still have, and grow up like a normal teenage girl. Or Mikasa could scour Manhattan until Manhattan was raw, and then keep searching and searching and desperately searching until finally the mask cracked and shattered, and when Mikasa looked in the mirror she would not see her vacant face, but the intricately carved exterior of Nio, and nothing more.

_The only future I want_, Mikasa thought, _is a future with Eren in it_.

In her daze, her mind fluttered freely into some restless void. She felt a tingling sensation, a familiar tug of icy fingers mentally latching onto her and closing a fist in order to fully grasp her thoughts. It was like someone had ran an ice cube down her bare spine, and let the water gather against her skin until her bones soaked it all up.

_Mikasa? _

A voice drifted through her thoughts, blissfully soft and gently wavering, like a radio out of focus. Mikasa stared at her food, blinking slowly. She frowned, and began to rub her arms from the chill. The voice was like an echo of her own. Nothing concrete, just a flicker in her mind, a blip in her train of thought, a nostalgic recollection of a sensation she hadn't felt in years.

_Mikasa?_

The voice was louder. It was clearer. Mikasa jumped, her palms slapping against the table as her neck craned around to search for whoever had whispered in her ear, tickling her senses and forcing her to gasp and grapple at her plastic knife in shock. Her eyes were flickering from side to side, trying to detect what exactly had snuck up on her.

"Mikasa?" Petra asked carefully. She sounded worried, and when Mikasa glanced at her, the woman's face was bemused. "What's wrong?"

"Did you hear that?" Mikasa asked, feeling a little out of breath and anxious. She wanted to hold someone's hand. She wanted the comfort of human touch to coincide with the mental intimacy. She wanted someone's forehead to brush against hers, two different palms fitting in her own, and two different voices laughing inside her head, two very different boys knowing her thoughts before she voiced them, and two best friends giving her their minds with all the trust and courage she could not muster anymore.

"Hear what?" Petra asked slowly. The hesitance in her voice was no longer worry. It was wary. Mikasa took a deep breath, and she shook her head, setting the knife down and rubbing her palms together.

"Nothing," Mikasa said, bowing her head. "It was just—"

A shot rang out. A gunshot that cracked and bled into a hundred screams. People were flying under tables, fleeing with the force of a stampede, screeching and bellowing and frantic. Chaos upon a single warning. Mikasa was too stunned to move, let alone think. When she gained control of her senses again, Mikasa jumped to her feet, and she recalled Levi's rules about civilian attire. No fighting. Just fleeing. But Mikasa had to get Petra to safety, and if that meant she had to fight, she was going to fucking fight.

"Mikasa, wait," Petra gasped as Mikasa grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the throng of people rushing toward the stairwell. Another gunshot rang out, and a voice bellowed, "Everyone on the ground!"

Mikasa froze. She looked down at Petra, who stood with large eyes and a rigid frame. They exchanged a glance, and came to a silent agreement. They very slowly genuflected with everyone else in the food court, raising their hands over their heads in surrender. When Mikasa looked around, she noticed that there were a lot of gunmen. A lot. She tried to count them, but she kept losing count, and when she started again there only seemed to be _more_.

"Don't worry," Mikasa whispered to Petra as the gunmen exchanged commands, bantered a little, spoke in hasty, mangled English, and Mikasa felt too unfocused to even care.

"I'm not," Petra whispered back. Mikasa looked at her, and Petra gave a weak smile. "New York's got it's own heroes, you know."

Mikasa blinked. "Spiderman…?" she whispered.

"No," Petra whispered gently back. "Rogue. And Polymath. Don't you keep up with any other caped crusaders?"

"Um…"

"Hey!" A gunman cried, his eyes roving the section of hostages that Mikasa and Petra were in. "You two! Anything you want to share?"

_You're holding that gun the wrong way, _Mikasa thought glumly_, so you're too stupid to be intimidating_. Mikasa raised her chin, and her mouth parted to say so.

_Mikasa, don't you dare! _

Her mouth clamped shut while Petra shook her head profusely. That tingly feeling had returned, but now it was more like a rush of electricity flitting through her brain, kissing her nerves and giggling madly as it tickled her senses and pulled at her thoughts like a playful child, yanking and twisting and forceful enough to be irritating.

Mikasa's breath hitched, and she looked around her, her eyes searching the faces in the crowd of hostages frantically to find that one familiar one, the only one that mattered at that moment. She tried to reach out mentally, to tug on that breach in her mind and follow the line to the brain of the boy she knew was here, in this room, feeding his thoughts directly into her head.

_Armin?_ Mikasa thought, broadcasting the thought with enough force to break apart the surface of a concrete building. She felt the mental line shudder at her intentional cry into the ether. She was stunned and confused, but mostly overjoyed. Her heart was beating very fast, and she couldn't stop looking around her to try and find her old friend's familiar face.

_Yes_, Armin replied, his voice trickling inside her head like beads of rain misting against a window. _It's me. I'm right behind you_.

Mikasa whipped her head around, but there were only hostages behind her, looking terrified and anxious and teary-eyed. _No_, Mikasa thought. _I don't_— She jumped, biting her tongue as she felt something warm and soft touch her hand. Fingers, tender and smooth without the rawness of calluses and scars that marred her own hands to detract from their warmth. Mikasa stared down at her left palm, which was twitching without command as an unseen hand closed around it. Armin's presence was palpable. Well, in her head, at the very least.

_You can't see me_, Armin said to her, _because I don't want you to. I figured out that I can trick peoples' brains into thinking I'm not really there, and now I'm invisible, but tangible. See? I mean, of course not, but you know what I mean._

"Oh…" Mikasa breathed. She tightened her hand around the invisible hand. It squeezed back, with all the gentleness of the tiny boy she remembered.

_I'm so, so glad to see you_, Armin said. She could hear him smiling in her head, and she smiled too, although it was wane and sad and a little alarmed. _I wish it was under different circumstances, though_.

"Ye—" Mikasa caught herself, and she responded uncertainly in her head with, _Yeah. I've been looking for you_.

_I know_, Armin said. His laughter was sweet, and it bounced around her head and trembled against the mental link. It was so strong that she felt it swooping in her chest, and she squeezed her eyes shut, a giddy smile pulling helplessly at her lips. _Your thoughts aren't exactly hidden. I didn't even need to touch you to figure that one out_.

_Oh_, Mikasa thought, staring down at her hand, which was clenching an invisible palm. _Is that why you're holding my hand? To read my mind better?_

_Oh, no_, Armin said. _I don't need physical contact to initiate a mindlink anymore. I just missed you, that's all_.

Mikasa stared down at her empty hand, feeling Armin's fingers intertwining with her own, and she closed her eyes and squeezed them. _Me too_. And for a moment, their link was empty, and neither of them could fill the empty space. There was no need to. There was comfort and Armin's presence, in Armin's touch, in the very essence of Armin's mind. It reminded Mikasa of safety and warmth, and she was so happy to have found it again. Now all they needed was Eren.

_It's weird, though_, Armin said. He sounded lofty and far away suddenly, and Mikasa could feel his bemusement seep into her brain, drizzling over her nerves and tingling her senses. _I can't read any of _their_ minds_.

"What?" Mikasa whispered, glancing behind her. As expected, she saw no one. She caught herself once again speaking out loud, and she glanced at Petra. The tiny woman was studying Mikasa curiously. _Who?_

_Everyone who has a gun_, Armin replied quietly. His voice echoed, and wavered, and she felt the connection between them weakening as though his mind was drifting away. He let go of her hand, and it felt very cold as it drooped against the floor. _It's just… this happens with certain people, where I can't read their minds, but it's never happened with a group of people before. It's incredible. Except now I can't talk them down._

Mikasa sat for a few moments, staring at her hands. She thought about Petra, who sat beside her without any fear, and Mikasa knew she had to do something. But the trouble with acting on impulse was that she could easily end up harming a civilian. That wasn't a good enough reason to get into a fight. _What do these people even want? _Mikasa thought bitterly.

_I wish I could tell you_, Arimin said. He sounded sad. Mikasa could still feel the connection, the spidery link between his mind and her own, but it wasn't as influential on her emotions as it was when he was holding her hand. For a fleeting, terrifying moment she imagined Armin getting caught in the line of fire. Her eyes flitted behind her, desperate to catch sight of Armin's round, exuberant face.

_Mikasa, please don't worry about me_, Armin thought desperately. _I don't need you to protect me. This isn't the first time I've had to talk down someone without using my powers_.

_You're not trying_, Mikasa responded firmly. _I'll just beat them all up_.

_Bad idea_, Armin sighed. _How many gunmen are there, anyway? You can't take them all on your own without someone getting hurt. And don't forget, you're still human despite all your strength. _

_Do you have a plan, Armin?_ Mikasa asked, feeling a little prickly. _Do you know that you'll be able to talk these people out of this? Because I think they'll just shoot you on the spot_.

_I have other tricks besides telepathy, you know_, Armin said. _And anyways, I always have a contingency plan_.

Mikasa nodded. _Okay_, she said. _I trust you, Armin_. She almost felt his smile in the flutter of emotion that passed through their mindlink. The rush of awe and affection stunned her, because she didn't think it mattered all that much.

The sound of struggling made everything still, a fearful calm passing over them as suspense dug its claws deep into their skin. Mikasa craned her neck to see as gunshots rang out, and the hostages all gave out a universal cry, dozens of bodies ducking for cover. _Armin, what's going on?_ Mikasa asked, as a voice bellowed, "Hey! Recognize me, huh?"

_I don't know_, Armin said. _I—_

Their connection spluttered, crackling and breaking apart with a vivid burst of static. Like a telephone cord being cut, there was a vacancy in Mikasa's head where Armin's voice had once been, where his presence had been felt. Mikasa felt it like she felt a limb being severed. She felt it shake her soul.

"Hold on," a woman said. Mikasa didn't care, though. She turned her head to search for Armin, and saw a pair of legs flutter into existence directly behind her. They disappeared almost immediately, but Armin was visible for just enough time for Mikasa to peer up at him and see his face. He looked stunned, and Mikasa could almost sense his emotions fluctuating. Mikasa knew that Armin's power dealt with focus. Unless Armin was physically touching someone, a connection could not be kept steady if Armin could not keep his attention on controlling the power. He had once tried to explain it to her, that minds were like networks, and Armin could sort of just flick through them like television channels and select which ones to read and connect with.

His voice fluttered back into her mind, sounding breathless and feeling like a pulse as it thudded delicately against the bars of Mikasa's thoughts. _It's Eren_, Armin said. Mikasa's pulse echoed the thrum of his voice, and her body buckled as she digested his words, and she forgot that Petra was beside her, and she forgot that there were gunmen everywhere, and she forgot everything all at once, even how to breathe.

"Eren," Mikasa breathed, jumping to her feet. Petra gave a little noise of objection, and looked around wildly. Mikasa saw Eren's profile, and saw that he was taller and broader and blinking around dazedly, as though there was something he needed but couldn't quite see. _Armin_, Mikasa realized. _Armin, he's looking for you. Link us. Link all of us. The three of us can do this_.

_I'm going to try_, Armin thought. _Let me get his hand_—

Five shots broke Armin's words, piercing them and shattering them across Mikasa's mind, allowing them to burst like shrapnel. And, with that shrapnel, Mikasa's world ended. It blew apart, an explosion of emotions crushing her lungs as she stood, Eren's name leaving her lips in a sharp, angry, anguished shriek, and she could do nothing as the image of Eren's blood flying through the air and splashing against the tangible surface of an invisible boy hissed and spat at her as it branded itself into her heart.

Mikasa's entire world was spinning. She couldn't function. She wondered vaguely if she would even feel herself being shot. She wondered if she even cared, or if she was even alive anymore. There was no future anymore. Not without Eren. And she was struck by the vision of Eren dropping to his knees, Armin's body fluttering in and out of existence. Blood was framing his face. It was staining a pristine looking white cloak that hung around his head and shoulders.

She scanned the room for the shooter that had blown away Mikasa's entire life in five rapid bursts, but she could not find them. Armin had let out a scream, a scream even more agonized and shrill than her own, and the scream rattled the air and sent Mikasa's hands flying to her ears. Everyone around her did the same, because the scream wasn't anything natural, and it was pulsating through the strangled link that was still half-formed between Armin's mind in her own. But the link was spiraling and clicking, collapsing on another mind, and another, and she could _feel_ them. Armin screamed, and his voice split through every mind in the room with the ferocity and anguish of a dying, rabid animal.

Mikasa fell to her knees, her eyes squeezing closed and her heart racing. She couldn't think any longer. There was no thinking in the midst of Armin's rage. There was only bearing the pain, and the relentless battering of emotion swinging down like the blade of an axe against her brain. Mikasa's fingernails were digging at the sensitive skin behind her ears as she fought back tears, her voice joining a hundred as everyone in the room shrieked in pain at the vicious berating of Armin's screaming inside their heads.

_Eren_, Mikasa thought, her fingers clawing at the tile as her senses turned dim, and her vision blinked out.


	3. a sound mind in a sound body

_**mens sana in corpore sano**_

**Manhattan, New York**

_a.d. iv Kalendas Septembres, 2766 A.U.C._

There was a sense of vacancy in his mind. The sort of shady, eerie hollowness of a school at night, or a bar in the daytime. He recalled things from memories that were not his, while his own memories were glossed over with a gleaming white paint, glimmering sadly and faintly. The institution felt like a bad dream. Sometimes he woke up screaming, and he couldn't be sure why. His was a power that could not be discerned easily. It could barely be explained.

As a rule, he didn't talk about the institution. Neither did Erwin Smith, the man who had admitted to blowing it up. Armin had escaped by following Erwin out of the building, and following him until the man finally noticed that there was a child tailing him. At the time, Armin had not been thinking of Eren and Mikasa. At the time, all Armin had been thinking about was surviving.

It was the sort of regret that appeared like a blot in his vision. And then it grew. Armin tried his best to reach out through the established link between himself and his friends, but there was nothing. Just… a vacant, heavy void that hung heavily where two distinctive presences should be. It was worse whenever he had to let other people in his head. He didn't like the feeling, the unfamiliarity and the acrid aftertaste, leaving him feeling worn and senseless.

The truth was, Armin's powers were pretty volatile. Without Mikasa and Eren to share the burden, Armin was forced to experience the vicious backlash of being a telepath. There was loneliness in bearing the thoughts of others. Upon leaving the institution, Armin had to face the exposure to thousands of voices daily, and feel them squirming inside his head. He had to focus to make them all stop. And worst of all, he couldn't control the telepathy upon physical contact. The thing that had made him, Mikasa, and Eren so close before was now his downfall. Someone could brush their knuckles against the back of his hand utterly by accident, and Armin could gain a rush of memories and anxieties while giving up his own frantic thoughts. It usually ended up with Armin in the nurse's office, curled up with his knees hugged to his chest.

Armin was eleven the first time it happened. Erwin had sent him to a public school after promising to take care of him, and Armin was immediately apprehensive of his classmates. He didn't like the way their thoughts felt in his head. He didn't like the heaviness of their stares whenever Armin answered a question correctly (always), and he didn't like how simple they were. He didn't like the emptiness inside him, and he didn't like that no one seemed to understand.

He'd been elbowed off a swing on the playground, and the book in his lap, a collection of Cicero's letters, collapsed in the sand as he went skidding on his hands and knees. He'd been stunned in the first place, slumping in the dirt as he peered at his skinned palms. Grains of sand burned his shredded flesh, and tears prickled his eyes. He wished, not for the first time, that he hadn't run from the burning building. He wished he had gone looking for Eren and Mikasa. He wished he knew how to find them, if they were…

They were alive, though. Armin felt as though he would know if they were dead. Their connection was too strong.

The recess monitor had seen Armin fall, and she'd come to see if he was all right. She had bent down and taken Armin's hands gingerly to look at the damage. Upon her touch, Armin felt the world screech around him, the air hot and palpable as a barrage of thoughts tumbled into his head, hissing softly in his ears at a speed that he could not fathom, and he felt his fingers shaking as a filthy taste spread across his tongue, bitter and burning and blackening his teeth like tar. He felt the words on his hands, bleeding through her skin into his and contaminating his nerves.

He had screamed, and she had screamed, and he'd torn himself out of her grasp and flung himself from the playground, tears streaming down his face and her panicked thoughts sledging through his mind. It wasn't like reading a mind. Reading minds was easy, like hearing bits of conversations in passing. It was easy to tune in and out. But what had happened was more like the woman's entire mind had bled from her skin, and washed over Armin, and he could taste her in his mouth and feel her on his skin, and he knew she could feel him in her head too. She knew him, and she didn't understand, and she was scared.

He'd ended up collapsing at the front of the school, clutching his chest and heaving. He felt pressure on his lungs, as though something was constricting his ribs, pressing onto them until the felt ready to give and cave in on him. He was rasping and shaking and sobbing, his bloody hands scrubbing helplessly at his face, and his eyes, hoping to wash away the stain of the woman's mind, hopelessly digging at his head in vain to erase the connection, to erase the sensation of invasion that clung to him, bruising his brain and bleeding from his heart.

The ambulance had been called, and Armin had been given an inhaler, and told he had asthma, and he was bandaged up and sent home. Erwin was a tall, charismatic man, who smiled when need be and masked his true feelings better than Armin ever could. Erwin had been affectionate with Armin enough in front of the doctors, but when Armin was alone with him in the car, the man had looked Armin straight in the eye and said, "We need to control this."

Armin could say nothing, do nothing. He was ashamed, and close to tears again. He rolled his new inhaler in his hands, his lips trembling, and Erwin eyed him. Streetlights rolled by, illuminating the tears that tumbled onto Armin's cheeks as he hiccupped, and curled up in the front seat, sniffling into the sleeve of his cardigan. Armin looked up, very startled, as Erwin pulled the car over to a curb. He stared ahead of him for a moment, and then glanced up at Erwin fearfully.

"I-I-I—" Armin choked, his eyes flickering down to the bandages on his palms. "I don't… I just…"

"Take a deep breath," Erwin said. Armin did, sucking in air and exhaling it shakily. "Tell me exactly what happened."

"I don't know," Armin gasped, clapping his hands over his eyes. "That's the prob-b-blem!"

"You've never acted this way before when reading a mind," Erwin said, his pale gaze flickering over Armin's face. "So what's different here? What happened differently?"

Armin wiped at his eyes, and shrugged. "It felt— I… I don't know, it felt bad, like I couldn't breathe, and I could just… I could taste all the bad things just rolling on my tongue, all the bad thoughts and feelings, and she could too, and it was so, so, so _awful_…"

Erwin nodded slowly. "It's okay to not be in control all the time," Erwin said gently. "But you sent that woman into shock, whatever you did. So now we need to be more attentive to how powerful you really are."

"But," Armin said faintly, "I'm not powerful…"

Erwin stared at him. He twisted his body in his seat to face Armin, and he reached forward and took Armin's tiny hand. Erwin was unreadable. Armin had theories as to why, but it was still amazing to him that Erwin's mind was completely out of his reach. And it was calming too.

"You are very powerful," Erwin said, his large hand wrapping around Armin's dainty fingers. "You have an extraordinary gift, Armin. I know you think it's scary, but I need you to accept it." Erwin's eyes flashed in the darkness. "Or else you might become very dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Armin couldn't help but laugh scornfully, his voice thick and his tears lessening. "Me?"

"Yes," Erwin said. "And me. And anyone else who was in that facility. We are all dangerous people, and we all must embrace that fact. Now, Armin, do me a favor and make the car invisible. I want to catch the evening news."

"The entire _car_?" Armin squeaked.

Erwin turned his face back ahead of him. "Yes," he said, a mild smile on his lips. "Can you do it?"

Armin was shaking in his seat. "I…" He took a deep breath. _Focus_, he reminded himself. "I can try."

They made it home in time for the evening news, though Armin felt a little lightheaded, and Erwin had to carry him in. The man apologized, though Armin could not be sure if Erwin was genuinely sorry for pushing Armin's power. Armin decided he liked it that way.

Erwin began sending Armin to school with gloves on when Armin was twelve. Armin began to appreciate them, though sometimes there was no way around brushing someone's skin. By that point Armin was used to the nausea and disgust that came with an unwanted mindlink. It was a part of him. And he hated it. He hated it so much that he did anything he could to avoid physical contact. He was excused from gym class due to asthma, and he ducked away from people in hallways, careful to never be touched. It marked him as odd, and rumors began to circulate that he was afraid of germs, or antisocial, or something. Eventually people seemed to get over it, and he made friends, but there was always a bit of a stigma to his condition.

They had begun sleuthing when Armin was thirteen. Erwin had a precognitive power that Armin still couldn't quite comprehend, and all of a sudden he was using it to stop massive crimes before they happened. And Armin was helping. They tracked down criminals, locked them up, talked them down, and never lifted a finger against them. Armin and Erwin had no need for violence. Their power was in the mind, and in the mind it stayed. The public had given them their own monikers when the media had finally caught them (a year and a half after they had begun using their powers for heroism). Erwin, whose power had somehow been leaked as precognition, was called Augur. No one had ever really seen him. Armin kept him invisible, though they both had acquired costumes to suit the bill. Erwin wore a short black cloak, and Armin wore the same one in white. Their costumes were the same, with the color inverted. Armin's suit was black, but his sides were streaked with white. His arms were white as well, though inky words were scrawled across the fabric as though written with a thick marker in Armin's own handwriting. The words moved around the white fabric, constantly changing to suit Armin's thoughts. Erwin didn't have this detail in his own costume. He'd developed it just for Armin, and Armin thought it was the most amazing thing he owned.

The media called him Cicero. It was because once, during a hostage situation, Armin had made himself visible before the shooter. And he'd talked. And Armin could not recall what he had said, but he remembered the words spewing from his lips, the calm, aggressively empty words that had gone on and on and on, catching the undivided attention of everyone in the room as Armin read the man's face, and scanned through his thoughts, and made words appear with a quiet fury. His voice had echoed, and his words had hit home.

And when he was done speaking, the gunman had turned the gun and put the barrel between his teeth.

"What did I do wrong?" Armin lamented later to Erwin. The boy stared at his fingers, watching words appear rapidly, a flutter of literature curling across his fingers. He thought he recognized a few lines from _A Tell-Tale Heart_, and he had to close his eyes to keep himself from crying.

"Nothing," Erwin replied. "Do you think you did anything wrong?"

"That man died," Armin murmured, never looking up. "I did that to him. I made him kill himself."

"That was his own choice," Erwin said. "You aren't at fault here, Armin. You saved a lot of people."

_Yeah_, Armin thought numbly. _But did I have to take a life to do that?_

He never quite got over it. He continued to try and save people, and continued to feel hopelessly lonely despite all the good things Armin had. Erwin wasn't a bad guardian. In fact, Erwin cared about Armin a lot more than Armin had ever expected of him. Whenever Armin woke up from nightmares, Erwin was there to placate him, and Erwin was there to make everything okay again. Erwin was Armin's tether to the world, and Armin was unbelievably thankful for him.

But sometimes it felt like the man was only playing Armin like a piece on a chessboard.

"Up," Erwin said, flicking on the light in Armin room. Armin blinked dazedly, curling against his blankets, and he mumbled softly into his pillow. His head was pounding viciously, and he felt sick to his stomach, as though something had been clawing at his abdomen for the majority of the night.

"Five…?" Armin grimaced, and rolled onto his stomach, burying his face into his pillow as Erwin yanked his blankets off him.

"No," Erwin said. "Now. There's going to be a shooting."

Armin was barely lucid, and his head felt like it was about to split apart, but the word shooting did catch his attention. Armin turned his head, brushing his mess of blond hair from his one open eye. "Shooting?" He sat up, and caught the costume Erwin threw at him. He glanced out the window and saw, with great despair, that it was still dark out. "What_ time _is it?"

"Other vigilantes stay up all night patrolling," Erwin said, raising his chin at Armin. A sign that he was teasing. "I wonder if they complain as much as you."

"I've got school," Armin reminded, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand.

"It's only the first week," Erwin said stiffly. "I'm sure you'll be fine. Now get dressed."

Armin frowned. Against his skin fingers, the light white fabric of his uniform glittered faintly as Armin's handwriting appeared in a thick, clean script. He vaguely recognized the words as "Rip Van Winkle". The words were fuzzy, and he blamed that on his bleary vision. He was just sleepy, was all. He sighed as Erwin turned away toward to door, and Armin rose to his feet groggily.

"I bet Robin never had to deal with stuff like this," Armin called after him. Erwin paused in the doorway, and he glanced back at Armin with his thick eyebrows raised. He stood for a few moments, and then smiled.

"You should read more Batman," Erwin said. And then he left the room, leaving Armin to scowl and glare down at his uniform.

"I don't even like comic books much," Armin mumbled, tugging his shirt over his head. "When did my life _become_ one…"

He checked the time after donning his suit, and he shook his aching head in disbelief. It was four in the morning. Sure, his sleeping habits weren't exactly the best, but that was because he had intense studying habits that were infinitely more important. He hated it when his heroing habits got in the way of his life. He would need coffee. He would need a lot of coffee, and probably some chocolate and motrin and something fuzzy to get him through the day.

"It's four am," Armin informed Erwin as he exited his room, pulling on his knee high boots. "I don't like being a super hero anymore. I think I'm going to quit."

"Do you enjoy giving me anxiety?" Erwin asked, glancing at Armin curiously. The boy managed a weak smile, and took the white cloak he offered out. "You know I can't do this without you."

"Yeah…" Armin threw the cloak over his shoulders, fastening it to the left. "Yeah, I know. I was just joking."

"Of course," Erwin said. He fastened his own cloak, and nodded to Armin curtly. "You can sleep in the car if you're really that exhausted. Also you might want to grab some clothes, just in case."

"What?" Armin asked flatly. He stared at Erwin, who merely stared at him, and Armin groaned and whirled away. "Where are we going? Are we leaving the state?"

"Please pack lightly," Erwin said.

"We're not leaving the country, are we?" Armin kicked a bookbag from his closet and into the center of the floor. He tugged a sweatshirt from his drawer, and then a pair of jeans. "What am I packing for? Because I'm not packing any short sleeves, I'm drawing the line there."

"We're going north," Erwin said, leaning against the doorframe. "You should still pack some shorter sleeves, though. It's hot."

"Yep," Armin said glumly. "I know. Not taking any chances, though."

"It's going to be about ninety degrees," Erwin said. "You sure?"

"We're going to be in our suits all day, probably," Armin said, shoving a pair of flannel pants and a very baggy _Les Mis__é__rables_ tee shirt. "Look. A tee shirt. Happy?"

"Moderately." Erwin folded his arms across his chest, and he smiled. "Hurry up. There are lives on the line."

"Yeah, I know…" Armin glanced around, and spotted his gloves sitting beside his ipod. He grabbed both and tossed them into his bag, zipping it up and tossing a strap over his shoulder. "Okay, ready."

"Good." Erwin nodded, and they moved toward the door of their small house. Armin focused his energy, and when he looked down his hands had disappeared. They left without a word, and once he got into the car, he kicked off his boots and curled up on his seat, quickly falling back into slumber.

He dreamt of a man with warm eyes who gave him a little cup full of pills, and told him that they would make him better. He dreamt of white walls and white faces, and he dreamt of his white skin with blue veins webbing visibly beneath like rivers of dying nerves. He dreamt of a girl and two boys who looked the same, and who watched him with sympathy. He dreamt of Eren and Mikasa, pressing their hands to his and murmuring that it'd be okay. He dreamt of a woman with blonde hair and tired eyes, who plucked him up and rested him on her knee, bouncing him until he giggled hysterically. His laughter melted as she began to sing to him, her hiding her hands behind her back.

"_Meine H__ä__nde sind verschwunden, ich habe keine H__ä__nde mehr, ei, da sind die H__ä__nde wieder, tralalalalalala…_"

He woke up with a terrible headache.

"Coffee," Armin murmured, rubbing his eyes. Across his hands, words were dancing wildly, frantically grappling for Armin's attention. They were not making sentences, only fluttering fractured bits of a book from Armin's recent memory. _Intense spurt of coughing— almost inspired— his blue eyes stared at the floor— seeing nothing_. Ah, right. _The Book Thief_. His subconscious was being very strange today.

"It's nearly eleven," Erwin said. He didn't tear his eyes from the road. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Mm," Armin rubbed his eyes tiredly. "Yeah. I've got a headache, but it was worse this morning."

"I'll get you some aspirin," Erwin said.

"And coffee," Armin said. "Please."

Erwin got him what he requested, thankfully, but Armin didn't feel much better. It wasn't surprising. Armin's headaches were chronic, and weren't easily placated. He blamed it on his power, which used so much energy that his brain probably just couldn't deal with the stress. Armin was used to it by now, but it felt like they were getting worse recently. He woke up with migraines a lot.

"Feeling better?" Erwin asked.

"Yeah," Armin said, stretching his arms. He blinked rapidly as he glanced out the window. "Is that the empire state building?"

"Probably," Erwin said, his thumbs drumming idly to the beat of the Queen song that had come onto the radio. "Also, don't ask. We don't have the time for any plays."

"I feel like it's your goal in life to make me unhappy," Armin mumbled, folding his hands in his lap. "Hopelessly, hopelessly unhappy."

"You have school, I have work," Erwin sighed. "We can't stay longer than the night."

"You're a librarian," Armin said. "They can live without you for a day or two."

"No," Erwin said. "No plays."

Armin frowned, and leaned his cheek against his first. "Fine…" The afternoon was heavy, and sort of languid, sitting with heat and humidity and causing Armin to grimace. He didn't like days like this. It was hot and sticky, and it made it uncomfortable to wear long sleeves and gloves.

"How'd you know it was in New York?" Armin asked, glancing at Erwin.

"I recognized the mall," Erwin said.

Armin didn't want to ask about how he knew the mall, or if he'd lived in New York City before, or anything. Armin didn't want to pry. Erwin's business was his own, and he didn't talk about if very often. Armin understood that the man deserved his privacy, so he never asked too many questions, but he was still desperately curious.

"I'm going to warn you ahead of time," Erwin said as he parked the car. Armin pulled his boots back on. "You're going to meet someone you know here. A girl."

"A girl?" Armin could feel his heart jump excitedly. "Is it… is it Mikasa?"

"I wouldn't know," Erwin said, tugging his black hood over his face. "I never met the girl. But possibly."

Armin couldn't help but jump excitedly at the thought of seeing Mikasa again_. But what if it isn't Mikasa_, he wondered_. What other girls do I know?_ In truth, Armin didn't interact much with people. He talked to his classmates, sure, and he had friends, but he couldn't recall ever being attached to any girl aside from Mikasa. He felt the prickle of memories trying to surface, prodding at the layer of soot and snow that buried his unsavory past.

"Armin," Erwin said. They were making their way into the mall, invisible and unnoticed. "I've been curious about this. You've never wanted to look for your missing friends before. Why is that?"

Armin had been thinking about it a lot lately. What he would say to Eren and Mikasa if he ever saw them again. If they were angry that he'd never sought them out. But the truth was, Armin felt that they were both better off without him. Armin was kind of just dead weight. He'd hold them back, in the end.

"I know they're alive," Armin said. "They don't need me. I've never had a problem with getting left behind. It's just my fate, I think."

"Left behind?" Erwin sounded vaguely surprised. "Is that what you think?"

"Well," Armin said, "it's just the most logical thing to do, I think, because I know I can be a burden."

Erwin was silent as they moved forward, and Armin couldn't help but feel nervous. He'd never really talked about his insecurities to Erwin before. He'd never thought he had to. He always thought Erwin just knew Armin, and read him as easily as though Erwin was the one with telepathy. Armin had never questioned it. He'd always gone along with Erwin's uncanny intuition. But now he was beginning to feel sheepish, as though he should not have spoken at all, as if he should have just left it alone.

"You are _not_ a burden," Erwin said suddenly. His voice was unbearably sharp, and loud enough to turn heads. Armin froze, and he glanced back at Erwin. Armin could not see him, but he could sense his presence inexplicably, despite not being able to read his thoughts. There was something different about invisibility that was on a different mental level. "You can't afford to think like that. We don't have the time to be so trivial, Armin. Either you accept what you're worth, or you become worthless. Choose."

Armin's breath caught, and he stared ahead of him numbly. His head was hurting vaguely, and he wanted to snap something irritably at Erwin, like that he just didn't care if he was worth anything or not, because it never felt like he was, but Armin couldn't. He couldn't fight back, and he couldn't speak, and he wanted fling his head back and scream. He nearly lost all focus and composure, and he saw the ink of his suit flutter into visibility, glistening in midair and laughing at him.

They moved quietly, expertly, and made it to the food court little effort. Armin was always stunned at how precise Erwin always was. His timing was always impeccable, and he was never at fault with location. Erwin simply always got things right, as though his precognition was more of a divine guess, and Erwin was simply playing at omniscience.

Armin knew Erwin's power was far from omniscient. It was still a little scary, though.

If Armin could have three wishes, he had no idea what he'd use the last two for, but his first wish would be to read Erwin's mind. It would be so much easier if Armin could just… connect with him. Not just any connection, but the kind of connection that Armin had with Eren and Mikasa, the kind of connection that was unbreakable despite all weathering, but natural in its manifestation. A calm, painless connection. Erwin was someone Armin felt desperately attached to, and admittedly dependent upon, so it was hard to know that there was a chasm between them. With Eren and Mikasa, Armin had always felt content. Safe. Loved. With Erwin, it was a guessing game. Was Erwin using Armin for his powers, or did he truly care? Was that smile real? Was that head pat affectionate, or manipulative? Did Erwin know that Armin didn't trust him as much as he let on? Did Erwin sense Armin's insecurities, and ignore them?

And the fact that Erwin and Armin could not communicate during these situations was so inconvenient! A mental discussion was all Armin would need to know when to stop talking, and start listening. A nudge, or a command, _anything_. It could have saved a few lives along the line. It could have shut Cicero's mouth, and disarmed a gun. It could have saved Armin from feeling so terrible, too.

But Armin didn't think Erwin wanted Armin to stop talking. In fact, Armin was certain that if Armin and Erwin did manage to forge a mindlink, Erwin would not hold Armin back. He'd probably want Armin to speak more often. And that, in truth, was the last thing Armin wanted.

_The only future I want_, Mikasa Ackerman's voice cut sharply into the careful barriers of Armin's mind, _is a future with Eren in it_.

Armin stood breathlessly for a moment as a familiar taste washed over his tongue. Like peppermint tea, prickling his senses and sending a sweet, fresh alertness through his tired soul. Armin felt the familiarity like hearing an old song on the radio for the first time in a decade. There was static, a nostalgic whir of emotions blurring his senses, and then there was a click, a natural progression of rhythmic connections flickering between him and her, a quiet mind and a coarse one.

_Mikasa?_ He called her name tentatively. The connection was faint, but still there, and he felt that he could hold onto it and lose himself in it, sing its silvery tunes like it was a melody long forgotten, but suddenly resurging through a series of flippant memories. Armin drew closer to her, staring at her in disbelief. She'd changed. She looked bigger now, steadier and harder and fiercer. Her black hair was a stubby ponytail at the nape of her neck, layers of too-short hair framing her doll-like face. Armin saw she had numerous piercings in her ears, metal studs glinting against the summer sun that streamed in through the skylight.

_Mikasa?_ Armin repeated, keeping enough distance from her to not be caught by the plastic knife that she whipped toward him, her eyes darting wildly. She could sense him, but she could not sense that it was _him_. She must have become sensitive to his powers in their years apart. Perhaps their connection had been completely lost. Perhaps there was nothing left of it, and Armin was yanking at a severed cord.

"Mikasa?" A small woman with short strawberry blonde hair sat across from Mikasa, and spoke with the tenderness of a mother to a child. Not that Armin would know, but he'd collected what he could from the thoughts of others. He learned from Mikasa's thoughts that the woman's name was Petra. "What's wrong?"

"Did you hear that?" Mikasa asked, sounding anxious and alarmed, her thoughts thudding through Armin's brain. She was scared, and confused, and she didn't know what was going on. Armin had surprised her, and in the worst way possible. Her fear sent a vicious wave of acidity crashing against his tongue, and it burnt his throat and his eyes, and he had to rub them with the heels of his palms, massaging the hollows of his skull in hopes to placate his worsening migraine.

"Hear what?" Petra asked slowly.

"Nothing," Mikasa said, bowing her head. "It was just—"

Armin was surprised when the gunshot rang out. He had not heard the gunman, nor was he prepared for this. He would deal with it, though, because this was what he was here for. This was his job. He was a hero. He had the responsibility to deal with the bad guys.

Erwin caught Armin by the arm as the room turned to chaos. "Which one is the leader?" he asked, his voice just loud enough for Armin to hear over the cacophony of shrieking, the clatter of chairs and tables and feet clapping against tile.

Armin paused to focus his energy on the flickering networks arising around him, the twisting webs of thoughts that brushed against his cheeks and snarled at his throat. He felt them vibrating against his lips. But even the bits of frantic, screeching thoughts could not be discerned into identification. Armin realized with a start that it was purely because the gunmen, several of them, all in a menacing group, had no thoughts to feed into the pool of tangled words and pulsating emotions that Armin was forced to digest.

"I—" Armin felt a little dizzy, and he blinked rapidly. "I can't. I can't read them."

"What?" Erwin asked. Armin held onto his arm, and took a deep breath. _Focus_, he thought to himself firmly. _You need to focus!_ "All of them?"

"Yes," Armin said breathlessly. "What should we do? I don't know if I can do this without reading their minds."

Erwin was quiet as the gunmen forced the remaining people in the room to kneel down. Erwin had seen this. The hostages, and Mikasa, and the gunmen. But not the fact that Armin could not read them. Erwin had not seen that, and Armin was bitter about it. What an incredibly important detail.

"Try," Erwin whispered. And Armin closed his eyes, feeling the pressure of that word as it bent Armin completely backwards, and threatened to snap his spine.

"Okay," Armin said. He took a deep breath, and spotted Mikasa kneeling not far away. He nodded furiously, and raised his head high, though he knew Erwin could not see it. "Okay."

He marched toward his old friend, maneuvering through people as though they were merely obstacles on a children's playground. He listened as she thought about saying something very snappy at one of the gunmen, and Armin shook his head in disbelief. _Mikasa_, he thought sharply, _don't you dare!_ He thought that perhaps he should be more gentle, because after all, their connection had been weakened to the point where Armin was not sure that Mikasa could even recognize his presence. But nonetheless, he let his mind extend outwards, reaching Mikasa's precariously.

_Armin?_ Mikasa's voice was heavy and forceful, ricocheting in Armin's head and booming in the vacancy of Armin's mind. He could feel her shock and desperation as she craned her neck, her dark eyes darting wildly as they searched for him in the frightened faces around her. Her eyes flickered right over Armin, as expected, and he couldn't help but feel sad, even though there was no way she could have possibly seem him.

_Yes_, Armin said, his relief escaping from him in a word, drifting slowly before reaching Mikasa. _It's me. I'm right behind you_.

Mikasa whipped her head around, but of course she could not see him.. _No_, Mikasa thought. Armin pulled the glove off his right hand, and bent down beside Mikasa. _I don't_— Her thoughts halted with a jolt as Armin's hand pressed against hers. There was a strange burst of warmth at the point where their skin brushed, and Armin was surprised and exhilarated because it had been _forever_ since he had touched someone aside from Erwin. Even longer since he'd touched someone, and that touch was pleasant. In fact, Mikasa's touch was more than just pleasant— it was a relief in itself, like crawling into bed after pulling three consecutive all-nighters, like taking a sip of water after a marathon, like stepping into an air-conditioned room after spending an afternoon in the desert. Armin wanted to hug her, and maybe begin to cry.

_You can't see me_, Armin said to her, _because I don't want you to. I figured out that I can trick peoples' brains into thinking I'm not really there, and now I'm invisible, but tangible. See? I mean, of course not, but you know what I mean._

"Oh…" Mikasa breathed. She tightened her hand around Armin's, and there was clarity inside of Armin's head again. His migraine was like a distant ache, and he felt a little more lucid, and a little more confident just by standing in her presence.

_I'm so, so glad to see you_, Armin said. He smiled in awe, because he was. He was so happy, and he didn't know how to express it. He didn't know what to do, and he was angry that Mikasa had to be in danger when they were finally reunited. _I wish it was under different circumstances, though_.

"Ye—" Mikasa stopped, and Armin nearly laughed. She was clearly not used to mindlinks anymore. In truth, Armin wasn't either. It had been awhile since he'd intentionally connected with anyone's mind, and when he did it intentionally, he usually did not touch them. _Yeah. I've been looking for you_.

_I know_, Armin said. He had seen it in her mind, and he felt a little guilty for it. But he laughed it off mentally, and he could taste her happiness as she smiled and leaned into his touch, a sweet and brilliant sensation that tickled his tongue. _Your thoughts aren't exactly hidden. I didn't even need to touch you to figure that one out_.

_Oh_, Mikasa thought, _is that why you're holding my hand? To read my mind better?_

_Oh, no_, Armin said. _I don't need physical contact to initiate a mindlink anymore. I just missed you, that's all_.

Mikasa squeezed his fingers as he locked them between hers. _Me too_. Armin had to take a moment to absorb the positivity of having Mikasa in his head again. For so long, connections through touch had been terrible to experience. Armin could not stand the feeling of skin against his own unless it was Erwin, and even then the man was cautious with Armin's comfort. Mikasa was special in that her mind was molded perfectly to fit his. There was no pain or fear in their connection. Just inexplicable relief.

_It's weird, though_, Armin said, after taking all the time he could spare basking in the comfort of just being able to touch someone. _I can't read any of _their_ minds_.

"What?" Mikasa whispered, glancing behind her. She looked through Armin just as expected. _Who?_

_Everyone who has a gun_, Armin replied quietly. He let go of her hand, saddened by the chilly feeling that followed their skin separating. He pulled his glove back on. _It's just… this happens with certain people, where I can't read their minds, but it's never happened with a group of people before. It's incredible. Except now I can't talk them down._

_What do these people even want?_ Mikasa asked bitterly.

_I wish I could tell you_, Arimin said. He knew that their connection was probably slightly weaker, and less comforting now, but he couldn't keep it up. He couldn't cling to Mikasa like he was a child. He had to be Cicero now. He had to be strong enough to hold himself up. Mikasa's sudden, fleeting vision of Armin getting shot entered his mind, and he almost laughed. The boy in her imagination was small and almost sickly pale, with a shaved head and tears in his eyes. It only reinforced his resolve.

_Mikasa, please don't worry about me_, Armin thought desperately. _I don't need you to protect me. This isn't the first time I've had to talk down someone without using my powers_.

_You're not trying_, Mikasa responded firmly. _I'll just beat them all up_.

_Bad idea_, Armin sighed. _How many gunmen are there, anyway? You can't take them all on your own without someone getting hurt. And don't forget, you're still human despite all your strength. _

_Do you have a plan, Armin?_ Mikasa asked. He could sense her distress. _Do you know that you'll be able to talk these people out of this? Because I think they'll just shoot you on the spot_.

_I have other tricks besides telepathy, you know_, Armin said, glancing around him. He tried to count the gunmen, but he couldn't for some reason. He couldn't focus on keeping himself and Erwin invisible, maintain a mindlink, and count at the same time, he supposed. _And anyways, I always have a contingency plan_.

Mikasa nodded. _Okay_, she said. _I trust you, Armin_. He smiled at her, and nearly hugged her then. But he didn't. He was distracted by another familiar presence, this one tasting heavy and acrid, like dark chocolate melting on Armin's tongue. There was an intrepid burst of emotions stemming from the presence, and Armin could taste all of them. They soothed his headache while simultaneously worsening it.

There was struggling somewhere near the stairwell. Armin moved tentatively closer as gunshots rang out, and a boy burst into the room without a care in the world. Armin's heart was thudding wildly in awe. _Armin, what's going on?_ Mikasa asked, as a voice bellowed, "Hey! Recognize me, huh?"

_I don't know_, Armin said. _I—_

The sight of Eren's face sent their connection to shambles. Armin grappled at it senselessly, feeling it slip through the cracks of his mind and stream around him like tattered ribbons. It felt horrible to have Mikasa disappear, but Armin could not focus any longer. His focus was so jostled by the sight of Eren Jaeger, in fact, that Armin felt his powers give a vicious signal that they were about to take over. Because Armin's mind and his powers could not coexist if one could not handle the other. Armin shuddered, and he felt himself become briefly visible. Erwin was standing across the room, watching with a hard expression.

Armin met Eren's eye, and the boy stopped dead in his tracks. There was an giant arm attached to his own, a goliath of a mass of flesh that stretched into the air, somehow lifted up by Eren's skinny shoulder. There was no way that was physically possible, Armin realized, but it happened. Eren was holding up an arm that was larger than his entire body and Armin's combined! And yet, as Armin drifted closer to Eren, he saw that the arm was falling apart. Muscle was sloughing off bone. Skin was bursting apart, shredding into steaming pink filaments that shriveled up and dispersed upon touching the ground. The arm was melting away, and falling to bloody chunks as veins and nerves were exposed. Armin peered at them, and noticed that they were extending from the pores of Eren's skin. They snapped as though severed by a god's careful swipe, and even they fell away into steaming inexistence.

_It's Eren_, Armin said, recollecting the fragile, broken connection of his mind and Mikasa's. Eren was looking around, whirling in place as his mouth dropped open. Armin could see green paint dribbling down his cheeks, shading his eyes from view and properly disguising his face from anyone who didn't know it. Armin wondered for a moment why he did that, but then his attention turned back to the steaming remnants of the colossal arm that had been attached via artificial nervous system to Eren's dark skin. _Rogue_, Armin realized, keeping the thought to himself. _Eren is Rogue. That's amazing_.

_Armin_, Mikasa said, her voice faint inside his head. It grew very harsh suddenly, frantic and unsteady. _Armin, he's looking for you. Link us. Link all of us. The three of us can do this_.

_I'm going to try_, Armin thought. _Let me get his hand_— As Armin reached, however, five shots boomed against the ether around Armin, colliding with a skinny body and causing a fountain of blood to bloom outwards in a hot, thick cascade, and it splattered heavily across Armin's cheeks, dribbling down his nose and across his lips, gliding against his teeth and washing across his tongue in a thick, warm, acrid wave. All connections were broken. He felt them shatter— his connection with Mikasa _and_ his connection with Eren— and burrow into his eyes in white-hot shards, blinding him with a blazing, stinging pain, and Armin felt the void collapse on top of him, laughing at him with such a sadistic glee that it crushed him.

_Fuck_, Eren thought, his inner voice faint. _I fucked up, I fucked up, oh my god, I fucked up_.

There was no line between Armin's power and his restraint. There was only Armin. There was only a boy who stood with blood sinking into his skin, forcing him to become a red silhouette in the face of the glinting summer sun. His heart had broken apart, and his mind was in shambles. The only thing inside Armin unbroken was some kind of fierce, angry power that had built up over time, hiding itself in nooks and waiting for the moment to strike. Armin fluttered into existence like a light flickering on, and he felt himself fading between void and visibility, viciously tugged from one realm of perception to another, and it was forcing him to see the world in shades of reds, of burgundies and vermilions and cherries and blessed, bloody crimsons.

_Eren_, Armin called into the hollow air. Armin felt his mind. He felt it failing. He felt it fading and falling away into oblivion. Armin was certain Eren couldn't even hear him, which was distressing because all Armin wanted was for Eren to hear his voice and to be okay.

Eren dropped to his knees, and Armin buckled. He couldn't take it. He was crippling under his own despair, his own power flooding through him and taking control, sending him spiraling into a pit of fury and desolation. Tears were prickling inside Armin's eyes as a scream ripped from his throat, bursting into the ether and ripping it to shreds. There was no ether. There was no void. Armin would destroy it all. He'd scream until it was all wasted, and he'd scream until the world shattered, and he'd scream and scream until his head stopped hurting, and he'd scream until his heart stopped, because he couldn't fathom a world without Eren in it, no matter how far away Eren had been for years and years and years.

"Armin!"

He was still screaming when Erwin clamped a hand over his mouth from behind, one strong arm hooking around his waist to prevent struggling. It didn't work. Armin thrashed against the man, still howling and screeching away, his screams thundering inside his head and tearing him apart bit by bit. He felt the warmth of Erwin's body, and normally it'd be a comfort of some kind just to have him close, but Armin had never wanted Erwin to leave him alone more than in that moment. Tears were streaming down Armin's face, hot and splashing against his skin, melting the still wet blood smeared across Armin's flushed cheeks.

"Armin," Erwin said, dodging Armin's arms and successfully muffling Armin's screams with his palm. Armin's head whipped back, slamming against Erwin's chest, and Armin felt the need to claw at Erwin's face until he bled. He fought against the man's arms until he couldn't fight anymore, and his screams turned into broken, breathy sobs, and he collapsed onto his knees, staring at Eren's corpse with a mixture of rage and misery. Erwin held him closer, squeezing his tiny frame, and Armin vaguely heard his voice hushing him softly as he smoothed back his hair, pushing back his hood, and let him sob against his chest. "Just breathe… breathe…"

After a few minutes, Armin was left completely numb. He'd quieted down, but he was still clinging to Erwin with a sickening hopelessness, fistfuls of the man's cloak crumpling beneath Armin's fingers as he sat like a small child curled in his father's arms. Erwin's chin was resting against the top of Armin's hair, despite the blood that stained it.

"We need to go," Erwin said quietly. "I'm going to pick you up."

Armin said nothing. He was scooped up like he weighed nothing, which was likely true enough, and Armin's eyes traveled back to Eren's corpse. Armin saw, sickened, that there was steam rising from the boy's five bullet wounds. _No_, Armin thought. _Don't do that, don't evaporate, don't go away, please_. More tears filled Armin's eyes. It wasn't fair. It wasn't, it wasn't, it wasn't, it wasn't, it wasn't—

The ceiling shattered.

For a moment, Armin looked up. All he could see was a pair of wings, glistening against the rays of sunlight in sharp, angular ribbons. The wings were massive, both spanning the entirety of Armin's body, and they were colorful and glossy, like glass suspended in midair and connected by some ethereal filament. They were attached to a falling, spinning body, which was tucked and rolling through the air with the skill of a master acrobat.

Armin was stunned as Erwin's body curled around him protectively, his massive shoulders working as a shield as the man dropped to his knees and slid across the floor to get to cover as a hurricane of glass came spiraling down from above. Armin sat, shaking against Erwin's chest, tears still flooding freely down his flushed, bloody face, and Erwin looked down at him with a frown. The glass skittered across the floor, narrowly missing the unconscious hostages— _why are they sleeping, what happened to Mikasa, what's going on, what happened, what have I_— and crunching under the weight of a pair of black boots.

Armin couldn't see who had fallen from the ceiling, but he didn't really care. He stared ahead of him as Erwin attempted to wipe up Armin's tears with the hem of his black cloak. It was merely dampened with blood, and it made Armin's skin feel sticky and cold. Erwin smoothed his hair back again, but Armin's bangs merely fell right back into place against his forehead. Armin wanted to go home. He wanted to go back to sleep, and pretend this was all a terrible nightmare. That Eren was still alive somewhere, that Armin could go looking for him with a newfound desperation.

The man who had fallen from the ceiling was now standing amongst the unconscious hostages. Armin could hear his thoughts, but they were nothing but a faint buzzing in a mass of vivid dreams swirling around inside Armin's head. Armin didn't have the focus to pick apart dreams from lucid thoughts, and lucid thoughts from specific identities. Armin saw the man, small and shirtless— no wings to speak of— and firmly muscled, bend down somewhere in the crowd of bodies. Armin stared, his heart thundering, and his head feeling heavy and ablaze, as though a fire was raging through all his thoughts and feelings and turning his insides to ash.

Armin saw the man gingerly prop up a body against his knee.

_Mikasa_, Armin thought. He struggled to his feet, pushing Erwin away and stumbling forward senselessly. _No, I can't lose her too. No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no_—

Armin wanted to speak, to tear the man to shreds using words and thoughts, but he couldn't. Armin's tongue sat in his mouth, heavy and inflexible, and his jaw was fastened closed as he quietly maneuvered through unconscious bodies, their dreams echoing loftily inside Armin's pounding head. Armin didn't know what he was going to do. Punching the man would do nothing— Armin had never punched anyone before, and he knew he would only hurt himself in the end— and Armin could not bring himself to speak.

Armin stopped beside the man. He stopped, and he stared at the man with glistening eyes until he finally looked up, and observed a tiny, bloody boy watching him with an eerie emptiness as he put a finger between his lips and tugged a white glove from his hand with his teeth. The glove was going wild with words, terrible, sketchy words that were scribbled frantically as though by an injured man. Armin caught nothing but a glimpse of the writing, his thoughts in shambles and his emotions conflicting with his senses, but he did manage to read a wobbly sentence. _But indeed these Things are nothing; if God should withdraw his Hand, they would avail no more to keep you from falling, than the thin Air to hold up a Person that is suspended in it_.

"What the fuck do you want, kid?" asked the man, glancing up at Armin with a bored, irritated expression. Mikasa's head was resting in his lap.

Armin exhaled sharply though his nose, Eren's blood trickled down his cheeks, and he reached down and set his bare fingers between the man's shoulder blades, resting the tips of them against a black, white, and blue tattoo that enveloped his entire back in a massive, fractured set of overlapping wings. At Armin's touch, the man's back arched in shock, and the taste of him lapped over Armin's tongue like brine and sea foam, a shuddering, bleeding taste, acrid and chilly and too strong, and it burned Armin's senses like bleach washing down his throat.

There was panic. Frightened, vicious, wild panic, and Armin felt it like a maelstrom beating against his body, sending him drifting in the air and crashing to the ground without pity or care. Armin felt the man's thoughts flood into his head, a flurry of disjointed, confused, breathless thoughts that sloshed around and hissed like a cigarette tossed into a puddle. Smoke billowed from Armin's mouth, the taste of it blooming like a wave of heat, and Armin knew it wasn't real but he could still taste its pungency as though he'd taken a joint to his lips and sucked down a vicious array of carcinogens.

Armin saw the man, whose name was Levi, he now knew, through the tangle of their minds like red and white ribbons unraveling into a small mountain of strings that could not be discerned or separated, and Armin saw his memory in the most terrible light. Armin saw the hazy image of a dingy hotel room, curtains drawn and darkness crawling like maggots beneath Armin's skin, and he could feel his heart beating very hard, and he could hear someone breathing against him, and it scared him— _Levi_— and it made him sick. The image changed rapidly, melting away swiftly, but Armin still felt the fear and rage and disgust even after the memories flickered, and his throat began to burn from the aftertaste of vomit, a woman appearing before him and wiping his lips and murmuring about how useless he was, and Armin could hear the thundering, bitter thoughts of a child, _You're gross and miserable, and I hate you so much_.

Armin watched the image change again, a memory burning into another, this one hazier, of a syringe in hand and a tourniquet cutting against his flesh, and in his head a voice whispered, _unclean, you're unclean, you filth, you monster, you_— Armin felt the needle prod against his arm, and the memory changed again just as Armin realized he could not take any more of this hell that was Levi's mind, and he dug his fingernails into the faint scars that traced Levi's spine, too light to be seen over the tattoo, and Armin felt his mind quake with rage.

_Let go of her_, Armin's voice said, echoing as it ripped apart the memories that lashed out inside Levi's mind. _Let her go right now, or I'll— I'll—!_

Armin could do nothing. Levi broke out of the daze that Armin's mind had set him under, and the man leapt to his feet and curled his hand into a fist, delivering a blow to the side of Armin's head that threw off his equilibrium and would have sent him flying if Levi had not caught him by his cloak and slammed his knee into Armin's stomach. Armin didn't even feel it.

Armin blinked as another blow came, Levi's knuckles grazing Armin's cheek— _just sign so you can get back on your feet, just fucking do it, it can't hurt_— and then another— _this was stupid, I'm stupid, I can't take care of myself let a lone a child, they should just take her, we'd both be better off, we'd both be safe from each other, it'd be better if she was just taken away_— and he listened to Levi's thoughts though he could not understand them, and Armin realized he was crying and shaking, and he felt a little laugh escape his lips, shocked and pained.

"_Stop_."

Erwin had caught Levi's arm as the man pulled it back to hit Armin again. Armin stared at him blankly, tears flooding his bloody cheeks, and Armin tasted blood in his mouth, warm, fresh blood that could only be his own, and he was beginning to feel the aching of the beating he had just received, and Armin knew he deserved it.

Levi dropped Armin, and Armin hadn't even realized he'd been lifted off the ground until he crumpled beside Mikasa, coughing and gasping, his fingers twitching toward his chest. Armin gratefully accepted the inhaler Erwin thrust at his lips, and after a quick dose Armin felt a little better, and his mind felt a little clearer, and he shuddered and blinked and stared at his bare hand in horror.

"W-wha…" Armin breathed, slumping against Erwin's arm. "What did I…?"

"I'm not sure," Erwin said. "Do you know what just happened?"

"No," Armin whispered, touching his nose gingerly. It didn't feel broken. His head was pounding like hell had been unleashed inside it. And he was almost positive that it _had_ been. "I… I have no idea, I…" Armin glanced around him wildly, at the unconscious bodies and the blood and the shattered glass and Armin swallowed hard. "Oh… oh my god, did… did _I_ do this?"

"Yes," Erwin said, plucking Armin's glove from the floor and carefully sliding it back over his palm. The fabric was a mild comfort against his skin, which felt prickly and unclean, filthy, disgusting— but he didn't know _why_. "You sent out a mental shockwave when Eren was shot. Do you remember that?"

"No," Armin choked, shaking his head furiously. Thoughts rattled there, and they felt like nails carving up the hollows of his mind. "No, I… I remembered I screamed, but I don't… I didn't mean to—"

"I know," Erwin said gently. He glanced up, and so did Armin. Levi was standing over them, looking furious and implacable, and Armin saw that there were more tattoos and more scars, and he was very confused. He needed to go to sleep. For a really long time. He just needed to not be here now, because he couldn't think properly. "You didn't mean to hurt anyone, right, Armin?"

Armin stared up at Levi, and he took a deep breath and continued to shake his head. "_No_," Armin gasped. "I don't know why I…" Armin rubbed his forehead, and took another deep breath. "I'm sorry. I need to think…"

"You do that," Levi said icily. His eyes flickered to Erwin's face. "What the fuck, Erwin?"

"Nice to see you as well," Erwin said placidly, rising to his feet. "I'm sorry for what Armin did to you. I can assure you, it was worse for him."

"I sincerely doubt that," Levi said. Though he glanced at Armin, who was hugging his knees to his chest and scooting closer to Mikasa. He wondered if he could wake her up. "What the hell is he?"

"A telepath," Erwin said. He frowned for a moment, and unfastened his cloak, offering it out to Levi. The small man stared at it for a moment as though it was something that would corrode his skin if he touched it. He then took it, looking at it glumly, and he threw it over his bare shoulders. "He followed me from the facility, so I took him in. I see you did the same."

Levi blinked down at Mikasa as he carefully fastened the cloak. "Yeah…" Levi shrugged. "We have the same power, so I wanted to make sure she didn't end up like me."

"Understandable," Erwin said, nodding. Armin stared at Mikasa for a moment, and he looked up at Levi sharply.

"You took care of Mikasa?" Armin squeaked.

Levi looked at him sharply, and Armin knew that the man hated him. "Yes," Levi said dully. "Aren't you supposed to be a mind reader?"

"I… yeah, yeah, I am, I just… I wasn't really focusing when I touched you, so I—"

"I really don't care," Levi said, his attention returning to Erwin. "What happened to the shooters, anyway?"

Armin looked up suddenly. He looked around. Erwin did as well, and then they shared a look. "I have no idea," Erwin said. He blinked around them, and shrugged. "It's not really important right now. We need to get out of here before the police realize the gunmen are gone and decide to storm."

"What were you two even doing?" Levi asked. He blinked down at the cloak around his shoulders, and frowned. "Are you two fucking superheroes?"

"Aren't you?" Erwin cocked his head. "Freiheit?"

"I maim criminals on a regular basis," Levi said, averting his gaze. "So I guess it's more like reckless vigilantism."

"It's all the same," Erwin said. "I don't think the media knows the difference. If you wear a disguise and fight crime, you're a superhero. There's no going back at this point."

Freiheit. Armin knew that name. _Isn't there a hero in Chicago called Freiheit…? _Armin was stunned. That meant that Mikasa too was… _and _Eren!

Armin's heart nearly stopped at the thought of Eren. He buried his face in his hands, and took a deep breath. He needed to calm down. He needed to _think_!

_Rogue_, Armin thought. He had to try and recall the videos on the news that he'd never paid attention to. _Rogue's power set is… a mild form of shapeshifting, isn't it? And… when he steams it means he's_—

Armin jumped to his feet. Levi took a step back, and Armin felt something stir inside the man from their brief connection that had not been severed. Fear. _He's afraid of_ me, Armin thought. It was almost too much to handle. Armin wanted to laugh at how ridiculous it all was, but he couldn't.

It was as though everything had fallen into place. Armin's mind was clearing up. He wiped the blood streaming thickly from his nose, and he took a deep breath. _Mikasa_, Armin called into the void. He felt it reassembling as his mind snatched up all of the power that had escaped it. He saw his friend stir, and Armin focused solely on her, severing the connection he had made with Levi and latching onto the eternal one that existed from his mind to hers. _Mikasa, wake up!_

She jolted awake, her body curling into a defensive stance. "Mikasa," Armin said. His voice was thick from the blood pooling in his mouth and flooding from his nose. She looked at him, and her eyes widened, darting across his face wildly, and she moved very suddenly upright, and her hands grasped his face, turning it from side to side.

"Who did this?" she asked, her thumb running over the bruise Levi's fist had left on Armin's cheek. Now that Armin thought about it, Levi said he had the same powers as Mikasa. Meaning, he had super strength. Meaning, Armin was very lucky to still have his head on his shoulders.

Armin took her hands, and shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he said quickly, blood dribbling from the corners of his mouth. "I'm sorry I knocked you out. I lost control of my powers for a little bit."

"I've done worse to you," Mikasa reminded him, rubbing her head. Armin couldn't help but smile grimly at the memory. "Where's Eren…?" Her eyes widened for a moment, and then Armin watched them dull. "Oh."

"No," Armin said, shaking his head furiously. He grabbed Mikasa's hand and pulled her forward as the two adults eyed them both suspiciously. As he led her to Eren's body, still lying crumpled where he'd been left, Armin heard the distant breath of someone running. He watched as a person came rushing up the stairwell, skidding to a stop before them. They had messy brown hair yanked up in a ponytail, and glasses that were set askew on their long nose. They looked around, and took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Wow," they laughed, running their fingers through their hair. "Gosh, that was a trip and back. So, where's my son?"

Armin stared at them, his mouth dropping open. Before he could read their mind to find answers, Mikasa lifted her arm and pointed at Eren. Armin glanced at her confusedly, and then he looked back at the person near the stairwell. They were looking Eren with a frown. Armin tuned quickly into the track of her thoughts. _Well_, they were thinking, _that sucks. Eren liked that shirt, and now he's gonna whine at me for a week because he can't wash blood out of anything at all… is that paint?_

They wandered over to Eren's body, and then bent down, prodding Eren's cheek gently with the tip of her finger. Mikasa lurched forward, her eyes flashing, but Armin caught her by the arm and dragged her back. _Rogue_, Armin recalled. _And Polymath. That makes sense. Eren was adopted_. Armin wondered vaguely why Erwin had never adopted him.

_Do you know who that is?_ Armin asked, plucking at his mindlink with Mikasa.

Mikasa's voice was clipped in reply. _Hange Zo__ë__. They adopted Eren about a year ago_.

"Excuse me," Armin said, stepping forward. "Hange?"

They looked up at him, and smiled genially. "Hey there," they said, glancing between him and Mikasa. "Uh, I can explain."

"You don't have to," Armin said, pulling Mikasa closer to Eren's body. She didn't stop him, but he could feel her squirming to put some distance between her and the "corpse" of her best friend. "I know he's Rogue. How… how does his healing power work, exactly?"

Mikasa looked at Armin sharply. "Healing," she said, her voice heightening in pitch.

Armin looked up at her, and he smiled. "Rogue's got regenerative abilities," Armin said, rubbing the blood crusted on his face. At the institution, Eren's powers had never really manifested. They couldn't have known. "Though I guess his blood doesn't evaporate when he's in his normal body."

"Ha ha," Hange smirked up at him and sat back on the tile floor. "You're pretty smart. And I think I recognize that outfit, too. Cicero, right?"

Armin flushed, and continued to rub at his cheek. "Uh, yeah…" Armin glanced at Mikasa. "And… Nio…" Mikasa wasn't listening. She'd already dropped to her knees beside Eren. Armin watched her tuck her hair behind her ear and rest her cheek against his bloody chest. Armin couldn't help but want to do the same.

"Whoa." Hange's eyes flew wide. "Whoa! Wait, okay, Nio, Cicero…" They craned their neck to look at Levi and Erwin, who Armin knew were talking behind him. "Ha! Augur and Freiheit too! How'd we all end up here?"

"Well, we were—" Armin paused as a soft sob escaped Mikasa's lips. Armin had never seen Mikasa cry before. It was alarming, and disheartening, and Armin blinked suddenly as tears filled his eyes, and he looked away from Hange, biting his lip which tasted like blood, of course, because his entire face was a bloody mess, and his entire body was aching, and he took a deep, rattling breath to try and steady himself. He was so close to Eren that Armin could feel their connection, still alive despite all odds, and he couldn't help but reach out and latch onto it. _Eren_, Armin called. _Please… please wake up now… please_…

Armin dropped to his knees as Eren's body buckled in shock, his eyes fluttering open. Mikasa did not let go of him, and Armin saw her arms tighten around him instead, her face buried in his chest. He blinked rapidly, green paint drying on his cheeks, and his mouth opened and then it closed. He patted her head awkwardly, his brow furrowing.

"Mikasa…?" He sat up, and then he winced. "Oh, shit. Shit!"

"What?" Armin squeaked, putting a hand on Eren's back to support him. "What's wrong? Are you not completely healed? Do we need to get a doctor, or—"

"No, I completely healed." Eren grimaced. "I… oh, hey, Armin." Eren's eyes brightened. "What the fuck happened to you? Do I have to beat someone up?"

"No," Armin sighed. "The blood is mostly yours. What's wrong, Eren?"

"Oh." Eren laughed weakly, and shrugged one shoulder. Mikasa was still hugging him. "Uh, well, this has happened before, but like… I kinda healed around the bullets, so…"

"Oh." Armin's eyes widened. "Oh my god. Okay."

"Yeah…"

"Don't worry," Hange chirped. "I've got a very steady hand. All we need to do is get out of here and back to the apartment."

"I can get us out," Armin said. He felt Eren's eyes on him, and Armin wanted to hug the boy so badly, to start crying and sobbing too, but he couldn't. No one else could get them out of the mall undetected.

"You're Armin, huh?" Hange asked, tilting their head. Armin stared at her in surprise. "Eren's talked about you. And Mikasa. It's really nice to meet you!"

"Y-yeah," Armin said, blinking confusedly. "Uh, same." He looked back at Erwin and Levi, who had finally decided to wander closer to them. "I'm going to make us all invisible, but I'll be the only one who can sense everyone, so it might be best if we held onto each other."

"You're not getting in my head again, brat," Levi said. He was watching Mikasa hug Eren, though, and there didn't seem to be much bite to his tone.

"I don't need to touch you," Armin said, rising to his feet. "I don't even need to touch your mind, really. Just hold onto Erwin, if I make you that uncomfortable."

Levi seemed to bristle at that, and his eyes snapped to Armin's face dangerously. "You're a little punk," Levi told him.

Armin couldn't find a real response to that, so he just nodded, and spun around to face Eren again. "Can you stand?" he asked Eren desperately. Armin knew he might pass out at any moment, and so he wanted to get them all out of there as quick as possible. Making so many people invisible at once would definitely weaken Armin, but… it didn't really matter at this point. He had no choice.

"Um…" Eren shook his head, and he frowned. "I… shit. Hange, I need to take my insulin."

"Wait," Hange said, their eyes widening. "Seriously? You didn't take it before this… okay, I'm not really surprised, but wow. Someone needs to give you an ass whooping."

"Tell that to the five fucking bullets in my chest, Hange," Eren retorted snidely.

"I will!" Hange beamed, their teeth gleaming as they laughed. "When I surgically remove them from your sternum."

"You're a scary bitch, you know that?" Eren frowned, and blinked as Mikasa let go of him. "Um, hey. Are you okay… or…?"

"I'm… fine," Mikasa lied. Armin could sense she was lying. By the look on Eren's face, he could too. "W-we need to get you out of here." Armin watched as she picked Eren up easily, much to his dismay, and he couldn't help but laugh.

"What the fuck?" Eren's eyes flashed to Armin's face. "Don't laugh at me! I have a _disability_!"

"I-I'm sorry," Armin gasped, stifling the laughter with his hands. He felt blood seep through his gloves, and pulled his hands back to see that his palms were completely stained red. Armin whirled to face Erwin, and he held out his bloody hands. "Will this wash out?"

"Depends," Levi said. Armin was surprised the man was speaking to him, after what Armin had done. "If it's a delicate fabric, put dish soap on the stain before you wash it."

"Oh," Armin said, his eyes widening. He glanced at Erwin, who gave a small nod. "Thank you."

"I still think you're a little scumbag," Levi said. And then he shrugged. "But Erwin and I talked about it, and I can't really blame you for wanting to protect Mikasa. Also, it was pretty ballsy of you, since doing that apparently causes asthma attacks." Levi shrugged. "But don't touch me ever again."

"I really, really don't want to, so don't worry," Armin said quietly. He moved to brush his hair back from his neck, but he remembered that it was in a ponytail, as it always was when he was Cicero. "Um, can everyone hold onto each other?"

Hange all but bounced over to Erwin and Levi, locking their arms between theirs. Armin smiled a little, because Erwin looked genuinely amused, while Levi looked ready to decapitate someone. "Hey, there, fellas," Hange said. "I've got this weird feeling we're gonna be seeing a lot of each other."

"Hange!" Eren called from Mikasa's arms. "Don't be creepy!"

"Says you, you zombified little—!"

"Fuck," Levi said suddenly, breaking away from Hange and spinning away from her. Hange paused, and frowned, glancing up at Erwin as Levi went running back to the hostages.

"Was it something I said?" Hange asked.

"No," Erwin assured her with a gentle smile. "He's terrible with people. Don't take anything he says personally."

"You know," Armin said, "you never told me about anyone else from the institution."

"I never felt it pertinent," Erwin replied. "I just assumed it was an unspoken rule between us to not talk about it."

"Well," Armin said with a frown, "it's not like I can remember much of it anyway."

"True enough."

Levi returned to Hange's side with a body in his arms. Armin recognized her as Petra, and he was surprised, because he had forgotten all about her. As had Mikasa, it seemed. "Kay," Levi said. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

"Right," Erwin agreed, his eyes meeting Armin's. "After you make us invisible, wake everyone up."

Armin took a step back in surprise. He glanced away, his eyes following the path of bodies across the floor, and he couldn't help but shake his head in disbelief. "I… I don't know if I have that kind of power…" _I don't know if I have the energy_, Armin wanted to say, feeling desperate and scared. He had no idea how to reach so many minds at once. "Can't we just let the police deal with them?"

"Armin," Erwin said, his voice a sharp warning. Armin bowed his head in shame. _Hey_, Eren whispered into Armin's head. Armin nearly jumped. _Want me to beat him up?_

_You really, really want to beat someone up_, Armin thought, laughing aloud, and quickly catching himself. Erwin studied him with vague suspicion. _I have to sever our connection okay? I can't focus on this many things at once_. Armin watched as Mikasa and Eren nodded at him.

Armin took a deep breath. He took Erwin by the arm, and then reached out for Mikasa. She moved closer to him, and he took her by her bare arm, sending a quick mental apology for getting blood on her. She didn't seem to care much though, and Armin noticed Eren had sort of just curled into her arms. He had probably passed out.

After cutting away all that he could of his links to Mikasa and Eren (he'd never be able to fully be rid of them, unless one of them died permanently), Armin closed his eyes, and focused his energy on shielding all of them at once. It was arduous, and it took a few tries, but after about a minute, he looked around and saw nothing. He could sense them all there, though, and that was comfort enough.

"How does this even work?" Levi asked.

"What?" Armin asked, his focus breaking away from trying to figure out the links of all the minds in the room.

"The invisibility," Levi said. "Are you just cloaking us? Because you clearly don't need to be in our heads to make us invisible."

"Yeah…" Armin sighed, and he closed his eyes. "Something like that."

Armin had no way to grab onto all the minds in the room at once, but he'd done it before, so he figured he could do it again. Armin usually had plans for these sorts of things, but he couldn't manage to think beyond what was in front of him at this point. He was exhausted, mentally and physically, and if he didn't act fast they could all be in a huge amount of trouble.

So he grappled with the links of a hundred unknown minds, and he latched onto them, digging his fingers into them and tearing them all open. He could feel a hundred dreams pour into his head as he opened up his own mind and shouted, _**WAKE UP!**_

The jolt was palpable. It blew across the air and scattered, causing a massive, universal gasping of slight pain, as though they had been pinched, and then they merely blinked in confusion. Armin severed the connections as swiftly as he possibly could, shaking as he squeezed Erwin's bicep and Mikasa's wrist.

"Let's go," he said numbly.

They went. Armin managed to get them past the barricades and the crowds before he collapsed, falling to his hands and knees and letting his exhaustion take over him, save him from the vicious pounding inside his head, and save him from the aching and the crawling. Armin just wanted a little relief.

He wasn't sure he'd ever get any, but it was nice to dream.


	4. higher

_**excelsior**_

**Chicago, Illinois **

_a.d. vii Idus Septembres, 2766 A.U.C._

The two semi automatic handguns sat almost innocently at the foot of his bed, glinting against the fading summer sunlight. Truthfully, Jean only thought they looked innocent because he'd never actually used them. But, hey, here was his chance. A cigarette dangled from the corner of his lips as he hummed along to the song that had appeared on his ipod. Smoke billowed from his lips, and he tugged at the hooks around his waist idly.

"You think this'll hold?" Jean asked, frowning down at his belt. It was equipped with a taser, superglue, a jackknife set, a panic button (he had yet to tell Marco he'd stolen a life alert button from his grandmother, but he figured sometime in the near future Marco would thank him), an extra pair of gloves, a penlight, a switchblade, a small, sharp, sheathed knife, some strong cable, a lighter, and a box of cigarettes.

"It should," Marco said from the floor, fiddling idly with an old handheld radio. Jean wasn't exactly the world's most tech-savvy, so he left that gadgety stuff to Marco. Somehow he had rigged it to pick up police transmissions. Marco, Jean decided, would be utterly invaluable in a zombie apocalypse. "You don't weigh too much. I think it's just a matter of, can you maneuver yourself so you don't end up splat against the side of a building." Marco smiled brightly up at Jean, though his words made Jean scowl, and feel a little uncertain about this entire scheme. Marco's smile fell, and it was clear that he had noticed. "We don't have to do this, you know."

"Yes we do," Jean said firmly. "No chickening out now. We've gotta catch Mikasa's attention somehow."

"Is this really about Mikasa?" Marco asked, his voice soft beneath the thud of music. "What are you trying to prove? She's not coming back, Jean, I'm sorry, but she… she sounded so _happy_ on the phone—"

Jean scoffed. "Happy," he said, yanking on his gloves. "Sure. Maybe she was faking it, ever think of that?"

"Mikasa doesn't seem like the type to fake being happy," Marco said, his eyes following the trail of smoke that trailed from Jean's lips. "If she was miserable, she'd say so, I think. And anyway, didn't Mikasa say she didn't like heroes?"

Jean pulled on a kevlar vest, and shook his head. He'd been thinking about this. He'd been thinking about Mikasa, and her sudden relocation to New York City, and Nio and Freiheit's disappearance from Chicago and rumored appearance in New York. Jean was incredibly self-aware of his own intelligence— or rather, lack there of. Jean had a tendency to do stupid, reckless things, and say stupid, offensive things, and never notice until it was too late. But this time, Jean had stopped to think, and he knew.

"I think Mikasa's Nio," Jean said, picking up one of the semi automatic handguns he'd bought from the guy who supplied his weed. He didn't want to look at Marco, afraid that his friend would be giving him that damn _look_. The warm, disbelieving, almost pitying look. So Jean began to check out the gun to make sure it was ready to be fired if need be.

"You think so?"

Jean looked down at Marco, who was smiling vacantly. The gun in Jean's hands weighed heavily. _Why am I doing this again?_ he couldn't help but think wildly. "Yeah," Jean said thickly, setting the handgun down on his bed. "I'm sure she is. That's why she was acting so weird about it when I showed her the video. Like, come on. Those moves were Mikasa's, and we both know it. And you remember when Mikasa told us about her real parents?"

"Yeah…" Marco nodded slowly. "Her mother was Buddhist. So… clearly Mikasa named her super hero identity after the Nio guardians of Buddhism, right?" Marco smiled, but Jean was a little irritated by his disbelief.

"If you don't want to do this," Jean said sharply, "go home, Marco."

"I never said I didn't want to," Marco said, sounding alarmed. He looked alarmed too, and he leaned back in shock. "I'm just a little concerned, okay? This is something really, really serious, and I'm kinda worried that we might… I don't know… just fuck up really, really badly…"

"How could we fuck up?" Jean asked, frowning to himself. He knew, of course, that the ways were innumerous.

"Um," Marco said with a short, nervous laugh, "you could kill someone?" He pointed to the guns on the bed, and Jean scowled.

"I won't kill anyone," Jean said with a sigh. "These are just a precaution. Like, for safety. And stuff. I only got two so you could have one."

"I'm not carrying a gun," Marco said firmly.

"You need to protect yourself somehow," Jean pointed out.

"Well," Marco said, shrugging, "give me your taser, then."

"You seriously would get that close to your enemy?" Jean shook his head, and he pulled the taser from his belt and tossed it to Marco in disbelief. It was such a shitty taser too. "Fine. We probably won't even need it."

"So… we're really doing this?" Marco sounded very uncertain, and Jean couldn't help but be annoyed. He didn't _need _to be here.

"Yeah." Jean nodded, and he pulled the cigarette from his lips and snuffed it out in a discolored dish he'd stolen from his kitchen about a year ago that no one had missed or gone looking for. He turned to face Marco, who had been ready for just about the last hour or so, but had waited patiently for Jean to quit ogling at his new guns. The sun was dipping pretty low in the sky, so Jean figured it was about time to get moving.

They didn't have any trouble sneaking out. Jean's parents were working, and Marco's parents just… didn't care. Jean was always a little concerned about his best friend, because he couldn't understand how Marco could be so cheerful when his parents were clearly neglectful. They had known each other for about three years, and Jean had caught a glimpse of Marco's mother once. Once! He'd never spoken to her, and she hadn't even acknowledged his presence. Whenever Jean asked, Marco just said that he was used to it, and that it didn't matter.

"So how's good ol' Lizzie these days?" Jean asked. They were sitting on the roof of the hospital that Marco often spent his spare time volunteering at. Sometimes Jean didn't see Marco for days at a time, and Marco would admit that he'd been busy with volunteer work, and Jean just… didn't get it.

Marco laughed beside him, his body blending into the darkness around them except for his face, which he refused to cover. He said that it made him feel like a criminal to wear a mask. "Oh, jeez," Marco said, resting his arm on his knee. "If she heard you call her that, she'd probably give you a slap."

"Gosh," Jean said dryly. "I'm shaking in my boots. Elizabeth, then."

"She's fine," Marco said distantly. He turned his face out toward the cityscape around them. "Tired. She works a lot."

"Yup." Jean knew. Because she never actually seemed to give a notice to her son. "Hey, what do you think we should call ourselves?"

"Like…" Marco blinked at him. "Superhero names?"

"Yeah," Jean said. "I mean, we've gotta have codenames, and stuff. It's just… it's just the thing to do."

"How many comic books did you read this week in preparation for this?" Marco asked gently.

"Um," Jean said, scratching his head and frowning. "A… fuck ton, to be honest."

Marco had to stifle his laughter, and Jean smiled wanly. "Okay, okay," Marco said, holding his hands out. "Lemme think for a second."

"Something cool," Jean reminded. "Like, I don't want an unfortunate super hero name, because that would suck."

"What kind of unfortunate superhero name?" Marco asked, blinking at Jean with curiosity gleaming in his eyes. "What constitutes as unfortunate to you?"

"Well…" Jean shrugged. "This kid in the Young Avengers, Wiccan, he initially went by the name Asgardian, but he decided to change it when he… came out…" Jean studied Marco's face, and he scowled. "You don't care at all, do you?"

"What?" Marco blinked rapidly, and he shook his head. "No, no, I—"

"Nope." Jean lay back on the roof, watching the cloudy sky idly. "I can take a hint."

"I didn't give one," Marco argued. "Like, at all. Come on, tell me more about your superhero st—" He paused as the radio at his hip hissed into life, alerting them both to a robbery in progress. They glanced at each other, and jumped to their feet.

"Is that close?" Jean asked, pulling the cable from his belt and unwinding it.

"Yeah…" Marco nodded, pulling his hood up over his head and glancing around. "Yeah, it's just a few blocks away."

"Okay…" Jean looked around, and eyed on of the nearby buildings, which was not as tall as the hospital, and thus there was a drop between them. Jean met Marco's eye, and he smirked. "Okay. We've gotta make it there before the police."

"And not die on the way," Marco said cheerily, though his cheer was definitely forced, and a little sarcastic. He took the cable from Jean and hooked the end of it to his belt, stepping up onto the ledge of the roof. "I'm going first, if that's okay."

"Sure, dude," Jean said, his eyes following the twisting of the cable through Marco's gloved fingers. "Be careful."

"Duh," Marco said, standing on the tips of his toes and peering downward. "You know, I feel like there should be some music playing right about now. Maybe like… Imagine Dragons, or—"

"Are you stalling?" Jean couldn't help but grin. "I can go first."

"Um, no," Marco laughed, stepping off the ledge and backing up slowly. "I was just making sure I can actually make the jump."

"Sure you can."

"Well," Marco said, his right leg extending in preparation, and his shoulders rolling back. "Here's to hoping!"

Jean jolted in surprise as Marco went running, his feet kicking off the ledge and hurling his body over it. Jean sped to the edge to watch Marco curl before impact, his body flipping and managing to roll into a landing. He jumped up and waved his arms, a sign that he was okay, and Jean released the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. He glanced around, taking in his surroundings for a few moments, and then he backed up. It was an easy jump. He could make it.

He met the open air without much hesitation. At the back of his mind, Jean could hear his own voice chiding him about his crazy and stupid this all was. He was going to get himself killed. He literally just jumped from a fucking building. And, miraculously, he landed unscathed, his body rolling easily against the surface of the roof. His shoulder felt mildly bruised from the impact, but Jean couldn't help but thinking it should be a lot worse. Marco helped him to his feet, and smiled, then pointed to their next target. This building was taller, and thus a bigger challenge.

"This is gonna be fun," Jean remarked. He was breathless, shot through with adrenaline and completely stunned by the feeling of free air beneath him. Marco's laugh was sharp, anxious, and empty.

"We can do it," he assured Jean. He unwound the cable in his hands, raising his chin and squinting at the building before them. "I'm gonna go first again. I think I can catch that pole up there."

"Dude," Jean said. "I trust you. Just hurry, because we need to get there before—"

"Done," Marco said, pulling the cord taught at his waist. He glanced at Jean, who stared at him blankly, and he smiled vacantly. "I was a boy scout."

"Wow," Jean said dryly, "and I'm surprised because…?"

"Whatever," Marco said, shaking his head and testing the strength of the cord with another sharp tug. "I'm investing in a grappling gun."

"Uh," Jean said. "Wow, you can afford that?"

"It's a necessity," Marco sighed, adjusting his hood and walking along the length of the roof. "If we're going to be doing this on a regular basis…"

"Fuck yeah…" Jean murmured, watching with mild awe as Marco leapt from the roof top and maneuvering himself carefully so he kicked off the building and used the momentum to push himself upwards instead of letting gravity suck him down. When he made it to the roof, Jean saw the cable come sailing back to him, and he caught it easily, buckling it to his belt and testing it until it went taut.

Jean leapt again, and this time it was a little different. He had to flip, and use his momentum to steer himself upward, and it was the most terrifying and thrilling thing he'd ever experienced, fighting gravity with the skin of his teeth, and shifting his weight just so slightly so he could maintain balance and pull himself up, and up, until finally Marco's hand reached and caught him by the forearm. Jean had to stop for a moment to catch his breath, standing at the edge of the building and shaking a little from the shock.

After that, they had it pretty easy. They didn't try anything too dangerous, like doing flips as they ran from one building to another. They weren't quite comfortable enough with the exercise of it to get all fancy. They began to laugh whenever they landed, supporting each other and nodding quickly, never speaking a word, and moving on. They had work to do.

They finally came upon the electronics store that was being heisted, and for a moment, they were a little at a loss for what to do. Then, without warning, Marco slid down, using their cord like a rope, and he was on the ground before Jean could even think about what to do next. Jean was amazed, honestly, because he was aware of how much Marco really didn't want to do this.

There was the distant sound of an alarm going off as Jean jumped down too, skulking quietly behind Marco and eyeing the broken glass that littered the sidewalk. He unhooked the cord from his waist, and listened. There were sirens wailing faintly in the distance. There was a van parked out front, the back doors swung open, but it appeared empty.

Marco locked eyes with Jean, and jerked his chin at it. Jean nodded, knowing exactly what Marco was thinking, and pulled the switchblade from his belt. Marco crept closer to the shop while Jean slashed at the back tires of the van, and then quietly rounded to the front to slash those ones as well. He ducked as he listened to the distant murmuring of voices. His heart was pounding very hard, and he was sweating fucking madly, and it was making him really uncomfortable and nervous, and he felt like he needed a smoke real bad, but there was no time for that shit right now, because Jean and Marco needed to do this and prove to themselves that they could do this, that they could be heroes.

Jean made his way back onto the sidewalk, glancing at Marco, who had pressed himself to the wall beside the shattered window, his face shadowed by his hood. Jean heard a soft, excruciatingly sharp crunching sound emit from beneath his boot. _Oh_, Jean thought, his heart thudding in his chest. _Oh fuck, oh fuck_—

Jean saw Marco's eyes glowing white in the darkness beneath his hood, terror glistening there as they stared at each other, voices stopping suddenly upon the sharp sound of a foot breaking glass disturbed their robbery. Jean inhaled sharply, and stared into the depths of the dark electronics store as a flashlight's beam hit his face, effectively blinding him for a moment.

"Who the fuck is that?" a panicked voice asked.

"Fuck," another rasped, less panicked and more furious. A shadow came very close to the window, and Jean watched in terror as a man stepped up onto the shattered windowsill. Glass crunched beneath his feet, and he sneered in the dimness of the streetlights. "Get out of here, kid."

_How'd he know I'm a kid?_ Jean thought glumly. Jean didn't think he looked like a kid. He was tall, and it wasn't like the guy could see Jean's face or anything. Maybe Jean just gave off an air of adolescence. Fuck, that pissed him off!

"No," Jean said. He saw Marco mouth drop open out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't care. "How about _you _get out of there?"

_Idiot_, Jean thought, taking an instinctual step back as the man's eyes lit up with rage. He stepped out of the window, and his hands moved to the holster at his side. _Jean, you are gonna fucking kill yourself, and probably Marco too, and this is all to impress a girl who is so, so, so out of your league, and you're gonna fucking die a stoner who never amounted to anything, even though you had your entire life paved out before you, you had to fuck it all up, jesus fucking chri_—

A furious buzzing noise attacked the air as the man convulsed suddenly, his entire body clenching up and his body dropping like a weight upon the glass speckled concrete, and Jean stood stunned for a moment, his eyes moving wildly from the man on the ground to Marco, who stood over him with large eyes. In his left hand was that shitty fucking taser.

"Oh, thank fucking god," Jean blurted, a goofy grin appearing on his lips.

"I'm flattered," Marco said, his voice remarkably calm for a guy who had just tased a burglar. "But no, not quite."

"Ha ha." Jean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, okay, thank freckled Jes—"

Jean was cut off by a charging body hurling itself at him, and he cried out, throwing himself to the ground and blinking wildly as he slid across the pavement, glass shredding his black training pants, and imbedding itself in his arm. He didn't feel it, so he had to assume it didn't break skin. He felt a little rush of panic as the second guy picked himself up and dove at Jean, his fist flying and connecting with Jean's stomach. Pain spiked through him, and he let out a pained little gasp, his body buckling as the man drew back and punched him again in the ribs, and again and again, and Jean coughed and spluttered, shocked and shaking from the blows, and Jean saw something flash in the darkness, something gleaming and jagged, and Jean threw his head back and howled as the bit of glass dug into his bicep.

"Hey!" Through the vivid pain, Jean could hear Marco's voice. Jean blinked away the stars from his vision, and squinted into the darkness. He saw Marco standing steadily about a foot away, his right hand tight on the grip of a semiautomatic handgun not dissimilar to the ones holstered to Jean's vest, and his left hand supporting the base. The barrel of the gun was pointed straight at the head of the man beating Jean's to a fine pulp. "Get off him. Now."

The guy looked up at Marco, and he had the audacity to laugh. Jean stared at him in bemusement, blood trickling from his nose and into his mouth, and he could not believe it. _This guy is even more stupid than I am_, Jean thought. That thought was comforting. The man grasped Jean by the front of his vest, and he rattled him a little.

"C'mon, kid," the man said. His voice was frustratingly condescending, and Jean exhaled sharply, glancing down at the shard of glass buried in his arm. "Can you even use that gun?"

Marco's warm eyes blinked vacantly down at the man. Jean saw how steady his hand was, and Jean thought, awed, that Marco was so much better at this than he was. And then, Marco lifted the gun up and angled it toward the air, and the sound of a bullet being spat into the sky echoed against the heavy city sounds of sirens and distant music and chatter and laughter and something rustling in a nearby alley. The man holding Jean jumped, visibly startled by the fact that Marco had lifted the safety without alerting either of them, and Jean watched as the gun was lowered once again to the level of the man's eyes.

"You know," Marco said, his voice the same soft tone that he used to ask if everything was okay, how was your day, can I have those chips, why does your music suck, Jean, "I think I'll manage."

The man's grip loosened just enough for Jean to wrap his fingers around the glass biting into his arm, and rip it out. The man's eyes met Jean's only for a moment before Jean stabbed the shard into his leg, and kicked his face in as he rolled backwards and bounced to his feet, nearly losing his balance. He clamped his hand over his bleeding arm and watched as Marco swung the butt of the handgun, whacking the man over the head and watching him crumple. Jean wasted no time in scooping up the cable he had dropped and leaping over the unconscious man, kicking the face of the one stirring from his tased stupor into the sidewalk.

"Thought you didn't want a gun," Jean said, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth as he spoke. He tied the man's hands behind his back with the cable, tears prickling in his eyes from the pain of the wound in his arm.

"I don't," Marco said, tossing the handgun aside. It clattered against the pavement. "But if it's between your life and shooting someone, it's not exactly a hard choice."

Jean paused. He stared down at the cable, and the blood streaming from the man's nose and staining the concrete red, and he was couldn't help but be stunned by Marco's words. He quickly tied off the cable, and turned to face his friend, his eyebrows furrowing. "You'd really shoot someone for me?" he asked slowly. He didn't know why he was so shocked. Marco was fiercely loyal, and though he was genuinely one of the nicest people Jean had ever met, he could also be kind of scary sometimes.

Marco laughed, and playfully slugged Jean's good shoulder. "Duh," Marco said. He glanced around, and tugged his hood further over his face. The distant sirens were not so distant anymore. "We need to go, though. Like, now."

"Oh," Jean said, blinking fast. "Shit, wow, right, okay. Uh—"

Marco grabbed Jean's arm and yanked him down the nearest alley, and suddenly they were sprinting like the devil was at their heels. Jean didn't dare look back to see if there were red and blue lights bouncing from the street they'd fled from, and he couldn't even feel his injuries anymore. All he felt was the thundering of his heart, his feet against the asphalt, and Marco's hand on his arm, all steady reassurances that he was alive and that they'd succeeded, and that was all that mattered.

It was four in the morning when they snuck back into Jean's apartment, and by then Jean was in intense pain. "Fuck, fuck—" Jean squeezed his eyes shut as he peeled his shirt off over his arm wound. "Fuckin'—"

"Shh," Marco whispered, glancing worriedly at the door. "The last thing we need is for your mom to wake up. Just hold still, it'll only take a second."

"Right," Jean breathed, nodded furiously. He stuck the gauze he'd cut for his arm between his teeth, and tore open a bandage as Marco mopped up the blood from his arm. "Oh man, is this gonna scar?"

"Oh, definitely," Marco said. The rag stung the gash, and Jean couldn't help but grimace. Marco smiled apologetically, and he pressed the rag to the gash for a few moments. "If you let me stitch it up, it probably wouldn't, but you're a wimp, so…" He turned the rag to his face and spat on the smear of blood that was beginning to set into the fibers of the cloth. Jean couldn't help but stare at him blankly. Marco noticed, and Jean couldn't help but laugh a little as the warm hued skin behind his freckles turned faintly pink. "Saliva can get rid of small blood stains," Marco explained.

"How do you even know that?" Jean laughed, hugging one knee to his bare chest. "Like, damn. Spit on my carpet, why don't you?"

"You have carpet cleaner in the cabinet under your sink in the kitchen," Marco said, rolling his eyes and laying the blood and saliva soaked rag over a basin of water. "I'll take care of it after I glue your arm shut."

"Yeah," Jean said, nodding. "Do it."

"It's gonna hurt," Marco said, no longer smiling. He picked up the bottle of superglue that Jean had kept in his belt. They hadn't stopped running until they'd returned to Jean's apartment building, so it was unsurprising that they hadn't managed to glue the wound shut until now. Marco unscrewed the cap, staring Jean straight in the eye. And Jean couldn't help but feel a little stir of panic inside him, because Marco tried very, very hard to keep things lighthearted. His serious demeanor fell through quickly enough. "I mean, probably not more then, you know, getting stabbed with broken glass, but it'll burn."

"You're pouring glue into an open wound," Jean said, rolling his eyes as Marco picked up his arm, leveling the bottle of superglue over the gash. "I'd expect nothing— oh, _mother__**fu**_—!" A searing pain shot through his arm as the glue met the tender, broken skin, and Jean stuck the gauze back in his mouth and bit down on it until he felt like his teeth were going to crack. And even then, he had to moan, his arm buckling feebly, and he wanted to punch Marco for being a jerk and not giving him a fucking warning before he stuck the adhesive into the profusely bleeding flesh wound. "Oh, fucking, fuck, fuck, shit, fu—!"

Marco shook his head, and slapped the bandage onto the now closed wound. Jean shoved him, or at least tried to, but he was on the verge of passing out. "Shh!" Marco gasped, pressing the bandaid to Jean's bicep. "You are seriously the worst at keeping quiet, Jean."

"Fuck," Jean muttered, pressing his bloody hand to his sweaty forehead.

Marco smiled wanly. "Go lay down," he suggested. "I can take care of clean up."

* * *

_These two are the epitome of stupid, and I hope I conveyed just how stupid they really are, because they dumb._

_I'll be updating every time I finish a chapter, so we'll see how that goes. I'm going to start thirteen after I do some homework, I think. Here's to praying that everything makes sense? Somewhere down the line. (I'm going to give the same warning here as I gave to Steph when she was reading it. Don't trust everything you read. The characters aren't reliable.)_


	5. on first sight

_**prima facie**_

**Manhattan, New York**

_a.d. Idus Septembres, 2766 A.U.C._

The initial offer had been, "Why don't you all stay the night?" Mikasa had accepted readily, not even bothering to ask Levi what he thought about it. Armin had accepted as well, explaining that they had planned to stay the night in New York anyway. Well, he'd accepted after he'd woken up. It turned out that he'd overloaded on his power. Mikasa was a little angry, because powers shouldn't overload. It wasn't fair that Armin had a limit like that.

Anyway, he had been okay in the end. A little weak, and a migraine worse for wear, but otherwise he was okay. And that was all that mattered. By that point, Hange, Levi, and Erwin had been talking about what to do. Mikasa was already sticking very close to Eren, listening to him talk about his life with Hange and how much better it was to be free, and Mikasa just nodded in agreement, but really she was just glad to be around him again.

Mikasa and Eren had squeezed themselves onto Armin's bed, and by that point they had all come to the silent conclusion that no one was separating them again. So the next morning, when they told their respective guardians that, as they all drank their coffee and watched the news about the previous day's drama, they simply stared at them blankly.

"Oh," Hange said with a laugh. "We know. Erwin saw it already."

"Unfortunately," Levi murmured, sipping at his tea.

"I'll need to find a job here in Manhattan," Erwin said, never looking at the three stunned teenagers. "But I've already made the arrangements. We'll go back over the weekend to gather our things, Armin."

"Okay," the boy said weakly. _Is this really happening?_ he thought to them, sounding rather dazed and giddy.

"What about you?" Mikasa asked, eying Levi suspiciously. He glanced at her, and sat back in his chair.

"What?" Levi asked.

"Are you staying?" Mikasa found it rather hard to believe that Levi would just stick with her through all of this, and even stay when he didn't need to take care of her anymore.

"If I was gonna leave, brat," Levi said, picking up his tea cup, "I would have left days ago."

_What an amazing asshole_, Mikasa thought over the mindlink.

_I dunno_, Eren thought back. He tilted his head, and shrugged. _He seems kinda cool_.

_So do serial killers_, Mikasa said. _But you don't go up and hug one_.

_Wait_, Armin thought, blinking at Mikasa. _Has Levi hugged you? Like, ever?_

_He once held onto me really tightly when I stuck my fingers down his throat to make him puke up the drugs he overdosed on_, Mikasa thought. She blinked, her eyes growing wide, and she rounded on Armin. "I didn't mean to think that."

"Are you guys talking to each other telepathically?" Hange asked eagerly.

"Um…" Armin said, his eyes on Mikasa's face. She couldn't look at him or Eren, who was looking wildly between Levi and Mikasa. "Yeah. We have a really, really strong connection. It never really faded from when we were younger."

"So you can just connect minds?" Hange's fingers danced in midair to gesticulate. These were poor gestures. "Just willy-nilly, connect 'em all?"

"No," Armin said, shaking his head. "It's more complicated than that. I connect my mind with someone else's, but that act alone takes a lot of focus and energy. The easiest way for me to connect with someone is to touch them. But…" Armin shifted uncomfortably, and Mikasa noticed how Levi's gaze grew darker, and his body went rigid. "It's not a pleasant experience. It's caused a lot of asthma attacks."

Hange's eyes sparkled with curiosity, and Mikasa frowned. They were watching Armin as though Armin was some sort of specimen that she wanted to dissect, and that was incredibly agitating to Mikasa. "Did you have asthma before you received your powers?" Hange asked Armin, pushing their chair out to face the trio.

Armin stood for a moment, looking stunned and a little bemused, and Eren glanced at him with a frown. After nearly a minute of silence, Eren spoke up, raising his head high. "No," Eren said. "He didn't."

Through the mindlink, Eren said, _What's up with you?_

Armin looked away, and Mikasa watched him bite his split, bloated lower lip. He took a deep breath, and looked toward the three adults with an air of resignation. "I can't remember much before the procedure," Armin said slowly, wringing his hands in an anxious, uncertain fashion. "I barely remember anything from the institute aside from Eren and Mikasa… and I guess the surgery too. But I feel like the entirety of it was just… a dream, honestly." Armin's eyes were wide, and he glanced at Eren and Mikasa apologetically, as though his words could hurt them somehow. "None of it feels like it was real."

"Hey," Eren said, clapping him on the shoulder. Armin jumped in alarm, his eyes darting across Eren's face confusedly. "No biggie. You think I remember half the shit that happened at that place? Hell, I can't even remember its name, or how long we were there. I just remember… you know, vague stuff."

"Really…?" Armin asked, sounding awed and relieved. He looked to Mikasa, who had to look away. "Mikasa…?"

"My memories of it are hazy too," she admitted. "I remember a lot, but it's hard to remember the details."

"Huh," Hange said. They turned to face Levi and Erwin, and they leaned forward anxiously. "So what about you two? You were there too. How intact are your memories of the place?"

"I can remember it fine," Erwin said. He brought his coffee cup to his lips, and glanced at Levi. "And you, Levi?"

"Crystal fucking clear," Levi replied dully.

"So," Hange said, resting back in their seat, "it's possible that this institution did something to the kids. Can you guys remember if they medicated you or not?"

Armin blinked rapidly, and glanced at Eren and Mikasa. All he could do was shrug helplessly, and Mikasa felt her stomach squirm. Could he really not remember that much? Well, it might be for the best. The institution wasn't the funnest of times, and Mikasa had no idea what Armin had actually went through to receive his mental powers. For all she knew, it could have been so hellish that it was the reason he had trouble remembering.

"I wasn't," Mikasa said firmly. "Armin and Eren were, though."

"Huh," Hange said. Their eyes moved across Mikasa's face. "Why not you?"

"Mikasa's powers are natural," Eren said, answering for Mikasa. She was thankful. She hadn't really had a reply. "She never got any procedure to get her strength."

"Neither did I," Levi said. "The wings were given to me, though."

"What about you, Erwin?" Hange asked. The quiet, calm man who had taken care of Armin for five years was frowning into his coffee cop. Mikasa didn't know very much about him, other than that he could see the future, and he was Levi's old friend from the institute.

"My power is not, by any means, natural," Erwin said thoughtfully. He glanced at Armin, and rested his mug against the table. "But my memories were not altered by the surgery required to gain my precognition."

"Maybe because precognition is different than telepathy," Armin suggested. "A different part of the mind."

"Maybe."

She and Armin were enrolled in the same school of Eren by the time they'd just about permanently moved in with him. It was a preparatory school, so the three of them had to wear uniforms. Mikasa didn't mind, because she hated picking out outfits in the morning, but she felt a bit out of place. She and Armin had never gone to a private school before, and neither of them felt very comfortable walking in the first time. Eren seemed to have them covered, though, strutting through the halls with long, angry strides, his eyes flashing as though he dared anyone to approach them.

Mikasa felt a little guilty when she skyped Jean and Marco to inform them that she was okay. Jean seemed particularly stunned to find that she was staying in New York, and Mikasa had no idea why he was so upset. It wasn't any of his concern what she did with her life, so she couldn't fathom why he was so alarmed by her absence. She figured he'd get over it.

Levi and Mikasa had ended up on the streets once or twice as Freiheit and Nio, but so far the six of them had not gone out patrolling together. It was probably better this way. They all had very, very different methods of crimefighting. Freiheit and Nio patrolled in the dark. The were rarely seen outside of their comfort zone, which was mostly beating up bad guys and hoping they stayed in jail. Mikasa knew from the news that Rogue and Polymath were completely different with their modus operandi. They were very loud and colorful, just begging to be noticed by the media. Their identities weren't even well protected. Eren had a mask, sure, and Hange wore tinted goggles, but it was nothing that really hid their identities _well_. They didn't seem to care, though. They wanted to kick ass, and they did it on their own terms. Mikasa had to admire that. Augur and Cicero were almost entirely off the radar. They were more like speculations than actual heroes, and that made them more popular for some reason. Armin and Erwin never actually fought, which Mikasa found incredible. They fought crime without every actually having to fight. She was almost jealous.

It was a hot, dreary September afternoon, and Mikasa sat sullenly in algebra class, her work already finished and her eyes cast toward the clock. Levi had promised to teach Armin and Eren how to shoot a gun, and Mikasa wanted to find a way to intercept the lesson. If Eren and Armin wanted to learn how to shoot, fine. But Mikasa wanted to be the one to teach them. It was only fair.

Through the thickness of the summer air, and the dull, heavy humidity, Mikasa felt Armin's mind shudder. It was like her hand pressing against his bare back. She could feel the shudder like a shiver rushing down his spine, like the spasm of a muscle, and she jolted in her seat from the sensation of it. She twisted to face him, only a seat behind her, and she saw that his face had been washed out, drained of all color and life as though something had spooked him into a petrified state.

_What's wrong? _Mikasa asked worriedly. Eren was missing class because he'd fallen asleep fifth period, and so he was in the main office, or the library, where he was probably checking his blood sugar. Mikasa wondered if he'd just fallen asleep again wherever he ended up.

_I…_ Armin sounded distant. His voice fluttered inside Mikasa's head, and then it broke pitifully. _I have no idea. I just felt something… weird. Like a mental shove_. He turned his face toward the window, where clouds were gathering in the sky, fluffy and dark and squishing together rapidly in order to form one overreaching gray mass. Mikasa watched, frowning in concern as his hands began to shake against his pencil, which drew lightly across his open notebook in a series of uncontrolled strokes. He didn't even seem to notice. _I feel like I almost had something, like there's this taste in my head that I can't quite get rid of, and I can feel it rolling around in my mouth, but I can't touch it. There's something there, and I know that, but I think there's something blocking my senses— like a wall, or something_.

_Do you think it's someone like Erwin?_ Mikasa asked. She knew that Armin could not read Erwin's mind, and Hange had come to the conclusion that it was because Erwin's mental powers counteracted Armin's. The powers simply repelled each other. Mikasa wondered if it was the same with Erwin seeing Armin's future. She wondered if the man had ever tried.

_No_, Armin thought, his head shaking almost furiously. _No, it's not like that. Erwin… Erwin doesn't have any sort of presence, or taste, or feeling. Erwin's mind is completely unreachable to me, so there's nothing there to really block my power. There's no reason to block something that can't hurt you. But there is literally something pressing up against my mind, and blocking my ability to pick up thought frequency, and it kind of hurts_.

"Hurts?" Mikasa blurted aloud. Armin stared at her blankly, and then his eyes rose upward. Mikasa felt the prickling sensation of someone standing over her, and she felt the need to throw a punch on pure instinct. When she looked up, her teacher was frowning down at her. She had the first seat closest to the window, so she undoubtedly had caught her teacher's attention.

"I'd appreciate silence," the teacher said curtly, her eyes flitting between Mikasa and Armin. "Thank you."

Mikasa slumped in her seat, and glowered at the woman's back as she turned around. _What does that mean?_ Mikasa asked, her head angling back at Armin.

_It means_, Armin said, his mental voice sounding spent and shaky and solemn, _that I feel like something is crushing me_.

Mikasa sat silently for a few moments, her eyes moving toward the window and then to the clock. It ticked away viciously, and every rapid click of the arms moving was a pang through her heart. _If you want to leave_, Mikasa said suddenly, _I'll create a distraction. You can run out. Get Eren_.

_Don't be silly_, Armin said. He laughed inside Mikasa's head, and it was calming to know that he wasn't in too much pain_. I don't even know what this is yet. I don't even know if it's a person_.

_What else could it be?_

_I don't know_, Armin sighed. _My powers are weird, Mikasa_.

She couldn't deny that.

After about five minutes of weighing their options, Armin sighed softly behind her. She could hear relief, but also exhaustion perched upon his short exhalation. Mikasa wondered if it was just their connection acting overtime, or if Armin was just that stressed from the overload of his power. Mikasa hated that she couldn't help him. She hated that Armin was hurting, and that she couldn't bear the load, and that she just could not understand his burden.

_It's okay_, _Mikasa_, Armin said gently, his voice echoing softly inside her head. _I'm okay now. The feeling's gone_.

Mikasa didn't think it was okay. She didn't think it was okay that Armin had been forced into this life of constant hypersensitivity, of voices and feelings that he could not control or block out. She wished the institution had never touched him or Eren. She wished she could have just protected them before any of this had happened.

Later that day, Mikasa and Armin found Eren sitting in the library, violently punching the buttons of a black 3Ds. Mikasa had already ditched her sweater, tying it around her waist to let some cool hair reach her bare arms. There was a handkerchief tied to her wrist to hide her tattoo, as usual, and she tightened it a little as she glanced at Armin. She felt sorry for him, because he refused to wear short sleeves or take off his gloves. Eren had ditched his sweater vest, and it was bunched on the table beside his schoolbag, and the small pouch he used to keep all of his diabetic supplies in.

"What were you doing all day?" Armin asked after Eren's character had died, and he spat a few vicious curses before slamming the little black console shut and tossing it onto the table with a scowl.

"Sleeping," Eren grumbled. He began to gather his things into his bookbag. "Well, kinda sleeping. I was sent to Guidance, and they were all like, panicky and shit because they thought I had an attack, or somethin'." Eren rolled his eyes, and stretched his arms back. "So they made me sit in here for a few hours."

"Are you alright?" Mikasa asked hurriedly, stepping toward him. He blinked at her, looking confused and a little irritated.

"Uh, yeah," he said, rising to his feet and tossing his bag over his shoulder. "I didn't actually have anything wrong with me. But, you know. Precautions. That stuff."

"It's understandable," Armin said softly. Mikasa couldn't help but glance at him worriedly. She was still concerned about what had happened that afternoon. But he seemed to be taking it well, so that was a relief, at the very least.

"Yeah, well, it's annoying." Eren ruffled his hair, and exited the library with every expectation of them to follow. They did without comment. "Levi is picking us up, right?"

"Yes," Mikasa said, her voice low and bitter. She knew he was a pretty skilled driver, but she didn't trust him to drive safely with Eren and Armin in the car. However, as Hange's official bodyguard, he had to make sure that their son got to and from school safely.

He'd been a little pissed off that he now had to play chauffeur. It made Mikasa delightfully amused.

"Well, we should get him to stop by some stores so we can get stuff for your rooms," Eren said as they walked through the halls. "Because frankly, they're boring as fuck, and all that blandness reminds me of the institution."

"We have stuff from our homes," Armin said, sounding surprised. "I mean, my room was pretty small, so my stuff doesn't exactly fill up the space, but—"

"Well, exactly," Eren said, whirling around to face Armin, still walking steadily backwards. "You guys should at least have TVs in your rooms. I hate fallin' asleep without the TV on, so I dunno how y'all can stand it."

Mikasa listened to his voice slip into a faint drawl, and she glanced at him curiously. _I wonder_, Mikasa thought vacantly, _where Eren was raised before Dr. Jaeger brought him to the institute_. They had met after Mikasa's parents had been murdered. Eren had been with Dr. Jaeger when they had came to investigate, and Eren had been the one to find the panic room Mikasa had been locked in, and he had been the one to cajole her out of the house.

"I like the silence," Armin admitted. Mikasa watched him fiddle with his gloves, and she pitied him as he smiled. "It's not very often that I just hear… nothing, you know?"

"Oh," Eren said. He blinked rapidly, and whirled around, nodding slowly to show that he understood.

"It's not that I don't like watching TV," Armin said hurriedly. "I do."

"I'd be a little freaked out if you didn't," Eren said, pushing open the doors. The three of them were met by a tightly packed wall of heat that smacked them in the face, taking them by surprise. Mikasa unbuttoned the collar of her shirt. She glanced at Armin, but he seemed relatively unfazed by the heat. Perhaps he was just used to baking in long sleeves and layers.

"Ha ha," Eren breathed, slumping against the humidity. "Shit."

"Summer is brutal," Armin murmured.

"Summer should go away," Eren said, starting down the steps as he hooked the straps of his backpack over his shoulder. Mikasa followed him silently, scooping up her hair and lifting it from her neck to let air dry the sweat gathering there. As she did so, she froze, her body buckling as a familiar jolt shuddered through the mindlink. Eren jumped as well, and he whirled around to face Armin.

"What the hell was that?"

But Armin was staring straight ahead, his eyes glassy and distant, and Mikasa could see him shaking, see that there was something clearly troubling him. He snapped out of it quickly, and his eyes darted around suddenly, his body curling into itself as though he had gotten a chill. Which was ridiculous, because he was wearing a few layers of clothing on a very hot day.

"There's…" Armin breathed, hugging his arms to his chest. "There's someone here…"

"What?" Eren asked, his eyes darting around as well. Mikasa found herself looking around too, but there was nothing but a few kids loitering on the steps. "What does that mean? Someone like who?"

"I don't know," Armin said, his eyes squeezing shut. "I don't… know, but… there's something so… so _familiar_ about this—" He stopped, his eyes snapping open, and he stared straight ahead. Through their connection, Mikasa could feel it. The tight feeling of something moving closer, something frigid and constricting, something like a massive wall of ice slipping between the three of them, severing their links with the precision of a master sculptor.

Mikasa and Eren followed Armin's gaze.

Standing at the foot of the steps was a girl. She wasn't wearing the uniform, so it was clear she didn't go to the school, and instead she was wearing a pair of tight black shorts and a worn white hoodie, which was pulled up over her face. Something prickled Mikasa's dusty, undisturbed memories, and Mikasa stared at the girl with wariness creeping uneasily through her chest.

The girl was staring right back at them, watching with her chilly gaze, and Mikasa didn't know what to do. There was no mistaking her. It had been a few years, but there was no way to forget a face like that. She was still unbearably small, but not quite so tiny and frail as she had been at the institution. She looked healthier now, with a flush on her cheeks and life in her eyes. And she took a step back, her expression unchanging, a curtain of blonde hair falling into her icy eye.

"Annie?" Eren blurted, his eyes shooting wide with alarm and excitement.

Annie Leonhardt's droopy blue eyes flickered to Eren's face. Mikasa could feel Armin's mental grip rattle against their blocked connection, his irritation growing and warping until he broke through the ice glazing the ribbons linking their minds, and pulled them all back together again. Before he could solidify it, however, Annie spun on the heel of her beaten, mud caked sneakers, and she bolted from the steps and straight to the front gate. Mikasa stood for a moment, stunned, and she blinked as Eren streaked past her in a blur of white and black and brown.

"Eren—" she choked. And then, suddenly, she was running after him.

She could hear Armin calling after her as she ran, but she could not let Eren out of her sight, no matter what, and she felt guilty for it but she couldn't help it. She had to keep Eren out of trouble, and for all Mikasa knew, Annie was trouble. Where had she even _come_ from? Where had she been all these years? Why resurface now? No, Mikasa didn't like it.

_Mikasa!_ Armin's voice was strained inside her head. _Eren! What's going on? Who is she?_

_Annie_, Eren thought harshly. _What, you don't remember Annie? _

_No_, Armin said weakly._ I… Oh, god, I don't remember her per se, but I know her. I know I know her, I can sense that she's been in my head before, but I don't remember ever seeing her before. Was she at the institute too?_

_Yeah_, Mikasa said darkly. _She's got ice powers._

_That makes sense_, Armin said glumly. He wasn't lagging too far behind, but Mikasa was growing worried. He had asthma, after all. _Why are we chasing her?_

_She was hurting you_, Mikasa said. _We should interrogate her_.

_What?_ Eren snapped. _What do you mean, she was hurting Armin?_ Mikasa watched him swerve, turning a corner sharply as he continued to pursue Annie.

_In class_, Mikasa said_, Armin felt like someone was crushing him. Mentally. It had to be her._

_Why the fuck would you jump to that conclusion without any basis?_ Eren asked. Mikasa was taken aback, and she felt a little shame as she rounded the corner after him, her feet clapping heavily against the pavement. Sweat was building beneath the folds of her uniform, and she could feel her shirt sticking to her skin uncomfortably.

_No, Mikasa's right_, Armin said quietly. _It was definitely her I felt earlier today, but I don't think she meant it malevolently. I think she's just… protecting herself_.

_By hurting you_, Mikasa said.

_I don't think she even knows she's doing it_, Armin said earnestly_. It could easily be a part of her power. A mental part_.

_But she's still hurting you_, Mikasa said, her hands balling into fists.

_She's protecting herself_, Armin said. _I won't condemn her for that. I don't even know her._

_Yes, you do!_ Eren cried, his voice echoing in their heads. Mikasa winced_. You just don't remember. Once we catch her, and let her know that we won't hurt her, you can talk to her, and then you'll remember._

_Eren, I don't think_— Mikasa started.

_No, it'll work_. Eren was gaining speed, and growing closer to the white blot that was Annie.

_Oka_y, Armin said. _Fine. That's fine. But we've got to actually catch her first, and frankly, I'm running out of steam_.

_Armin has asthma, Eren_, Mikasa reminded him carefully, her own voice sounding rather chiding in her own head.

_Oh_, Eren said. _Oh, fuck, right. Shit! Armin, don't run if it's hard to breathe, holy fuck_.

_You shouldn't be running either_, Mikasa said.

_Don't mom me, Mikasa, okay, I'm perfectly fine_.

_Eren_, Armin said, _how well do you know these streets?_

_Uh_, Eren said, _pretty well, I guess, I mean I usually walk to the subway this way, but_—

_I need you to mentally send me a layout of the streets_, Armin said. _You should be fast enough to be able to cut through an alley to get ahead of her. I'm going to stop and text Petra to see if she can give us a hand. Mikasa, you should keep running straight. I think there's construction up ahead— there was a sign, so I'm sure Annie knows, but there's got to be another sign coming up. If we can trap her in a dead end_—

_Sounds good_, Eren said, his thoughts a stream of roads intersecting and colliding, traffic lights glimmering inside bold green eyes and standing out starkly in the twisting ribbons of their mindlink. Mikasa continued to run forward, her shiny black shoes scuffing against the sidewalk as she sped forward with great ease. She wasn't remotely winded from the run, and was actually gaining some momentum from just keeping up the rhythm of her legs pushing off the concrete and making fast, long strides. She was hot, true, and the heat was causing her clothes to stick uncomfortably to her skin— she could feel how slick her abdomen was with sweat, and her hair was growing damp and falling into her eyes, twisting in dark, damp strands about her cheeks.

_Eren, turn left,_ Armin ordered, his voice a startling command. _That alley should spit you out near the construction zone. Turn right, and you'll be on this road again, just farther up, and then go straight and you'll be at a dead end. Okay?_

_Got it_, Eren said, swerving suddenly with his feet almost skidding across the walkway, and he flung himself between two buildings, disappearing into the cover of cars and gray, shimmery glass. Mikasa kept forward, gaining speed with every step, and she got closer and closer to Annie's tiny blur of a body, observing her like a passing blinking confusedly at a dog gnawing on a bone, strings of meat still clinging to the discolored appendage.

_Guys, Petra said she'd do it_, Armin said softly. _But I might be out of range soon. I'm going to try and keep up, but if I disappear it's because you'll be too far for my mind to reach you._

_Then me and Mikasa won't be able to communicate_, Eren pointed out. _How will I know if Annie's coming?_

_You should be able to see her_, Armin said_. If you don't, then text me, or something_.

_Armin, how come you have Petra's number?_ Mikasa asked.

_I asked for it_, Armin said_, because I figured it's always good to have a hacker on speed dial. I mean, I know how to do some coding, but that's baby stuff. Petra took Auruo Bossard off the FBI watch list, and they never noticed_.

_Did she tell you that?_ Mikasa asked.

_No_, Armin said. _Erwin did_.

Mikasa wasn't sure what that meant. But she couldn't focus on it. She had to keep going forward, keep gaining on Annie, keep focused on their mission at hand. Armin fell out of range around that point, and Mikasa felt the emptiness in her head like swallowing an ice cube. It slid awkwardly through her, cold and painful, and she wished for Armin and Eren's voices to just soothe the vacuous space.

Sure, Mikasa had known Annie. She recalled the girl, quiet and glum, sitting alone during classes and at lunch and in the common room, always sort of blending into the stark white walls as though she was waiting for them to consume her. She had a look in her eyes that Mikasa never really forgot. Dull, and cold, and lifeless, like the eyes of a living corpse who had resigned to a fate inconceivable to man. Mikasa had often avoided her just to shake her eerie gaze. Mikasa, who was passive and quiet on her own, was utterly unnerved by Annie.

But now she seemed different. There was something alive in her eyes, and there was something that had sparked in them upon coming in contact with Eren, Armin, and Mikasa. There was fear glimmering uncertainly, flashing as brightly as a flame, and then Mikasa watched it consume her, and drive her away. Mikasa felt the need to grab the girl by both her shoulders and shake her until she made sense.

Even after Annie's procedure she'd never really seemed alive. She would sometimes sit by the windows and touch the glass, watching vacantly as frost blossomed from the tips of her fingers, which were blackened and hard, and crawled swiftly across the surface with all the vivacity that Annie lacked. But then she'd notice Mikasa staring, and she'd slip on her gloves and edge away from the window, staring blankly at Mikasa until one of them averted their gaze.

Now there was an irksome urge to pivot on the shiny heels of her black shoes, and run in the opposite direction of Annie. There was an instinctual hatred inside Mikasa that she could not fathom or explain. Mikasa was not one to hate people without grounds, but Annie was an exception. There was something inhuman about her eyes, about her very existence inside Mikasa's wan, dusty memory, and Mikasa couldn't help but wish ill of her.

She was getting closer now, her long plaid, pleated skirt wavering below her knees, and she could hear the sound of the city pounding in her ears, cars whooshing by and horns beeping and construction— jackhammers and shouting and the furious wail of buildings shaking, like the apocalypse had come to devour Manhattan, and it all started with a wrongly placed blow to a slab of concrete. Mikasa's hair was no longer tickling her face, but it was blown back by the force of her flinging her body forward, and she felt wind against her face despite the overwhelming humidity, and the cool feeling of the rush only made her move faster, exhilarated and determined, until she could reach out and run the tips of her fingers across the back of Annie's heavy white hoodie.

Mikasa skidded to a stop as Annie was tackled in front of her, two bodies tangling and rolling into the road. Mikasa stood for a moment, stunned by this change of course, and she watched for a few moments as Eren tore Annie's hood back, snarling something at her that could not be heard over the din of construction. Annie was squirming, slipping out of his grip and driving her elbow into the side of his head, her arms shooting out and clapping against the road as she tried to drag herself out from under Eren, who was practically crushing her under his frame, and Mikasa watched with vague interest as the tiny blonde girl's gloved fingers scratched senselessly at the asphalt, not able to get any traction, and finally relenting to flipping herself onto her back and kicking Eren off her.

The sound of a car coming close caught Mikasa's attention. She saw it moving with a moderate slowness, but it was still going fast enough to crush Annie and Eren if it kept coming. Mikasa stepped onto the road, tightening her gray sweater around her waist, and she watched the car keep coming toward her. The driver probably expected her to move out of the way. She could see the confusion in his eyes as he came very close and slammed on the breaks a little too late. Mikasa's squared her shoulders and reached out, letting her arms take in most of the impact, and feeling the pressure as it reverberated through her bones. Her nails dug into the fender, and she watched the car tip forward precariously, its hind-wheels lifting off the ground. She exhaled sharply, and shoved the car very hard, listening to it fall back, and she met the eyes of the driver, who looked utterly terrified, and she whirled away. She had to pry her fingers from the indentations she had made in the hood of the car, but otherwise she was fine.

Eren's face was now a mess of bruises, and Annie's wasn't much better. They were both dirt caked, blood smeared messes, and Mikasa stood with a scowl. She was close enough to the wrestling duo to hear Eren's clipped, vicious pleading. "Annie, what the fuck— _Annie_—!" Annie's leg shot out, and her foot caught Eren in the chest. He still had her firmly by the arm, and as he went flying, so did she, his head colliding with the edge of the sidewalk and her body skidding across the ground into an unceremonious heap of limbs.

"What the _hell_?" the man behind them cried, exiting his car with a shaky uncertainty. Mikasa glanced at him, and all of a sudden Armin's voice flooded her head, rich and scared and alarmed. _What are you guys doing in the middle of the street?_

Annie lifted herself up slowly, her arms buckling under her weight, and Mikasa saw a long smear of blood glistening from temple to chin, her cheek opened by a violent brush-burn, and she looked around with her right eye squinted closed. Mikasa focused on Eren, who was propping himself onto his elbow, his uniform a rumpled, blood stained, dirt streaked disaster, and he lifted his fingers to the back of his head, and grimaced as he pulled them back slick and crimson.

Mikasa turned her attention down the street, where Armin was jogging toward them, and then to the construction sign which glimmered bright orange, an arrow pointing in the direction of an alley that reached a dead end. _Armin's plan would have worked_, Mikasa thought, _but Eren acted too quickly_.

_I'm not surprised_, Armin said. Mikasa frowned, and wondered if there were any thoughts that Armin couldn't hear. _But it looks like we're just going to get into more trouble now_.

_Why is she fighting me?_ Eren asked, sounding faint. He looked a little out of it, his eyes unfocused. _Why is she running away? We're friends, aren't we?_

_I don't know, Eren_, Armin said softly. His voice trickled through their heads, bathing them in a warm, milky calm. _You tell me_.

Annie pushed herself shakily to her feet, and her eyes darted to Mikasa's face. Mikasa could see her body curling defensively, her eyes narrowing and her mouth parting. She looked like a wounded animal caught in a trap, and Mikasa knew that she was the predator, and Annie was the prey. Her right cheek was still blood smeared, but less so now. Mikasa noticed, with slight awe, that the blood was crystallizing, glittering in red, icy filaments burrowed into her flesh.

Mikasa took a step forward, and Annie took a step back, her fists rising to eyelevel. Mikasa stood for a moment, assessing her stance, and then she leapt at the girl, her own fist crashing against Annie's arm, and then averting its course rapidly to her cheek. Annie was backhanded, but she did not stumble, and Mikasa blinked as her knee jutted out and caught Mikasa in the stomach.

"Hey!" cried the man whose car Mikasa had dented. "Holy shit, stop—!"

Mikasa used a good portion of her strength to push Annie, and the tiny girl went crashing into the sidewalk, blinking wildly as Mikasa pinned her down by her shoulders, putting pressure on her legs so she wouldn't be able to do any kicking, since Mikasa could tell that the majority of her strength was in her lower muscles.

Annie stared at Mikasa with a glazed, icy stare, before she seemed to snap out of her stupor. She head-butted Mikasa, but Mikasa only winced a little in irritation, while Annie gave a sharp, pained gasp in shock.

"Whoa," Eren said, standing up a little uncertainly, and holding the back of his head as he neared Mikasa. "Way to go."

"Thanks." Mikasa didn't look up as Armin neared them, panting and wheezing a little, his body doubled over as he tried to catch his breath. Mikasa felt guilty as she listened to his gasping, and she wondered if he felt like he was suffocating, the way he was desperately heaving for air. _Armin_, she thought, _give me your tie_.

_What?_ Armin asked. He looked up at Mikasa sharply, his eyes wide and confused. _Why—? Mikasa, we can't tie her up, it's going to look like we're kidnapping her_.

_Well, isn't that what we're doing?_ Mikasa stared at Annie, and Annie stared back.

Armin loosened his tie slowly, and he glanced feebly around him as Mikasa pulled Annie upright, still pinning her legs down, and Armin knelt behind the girl and bound her wrists behind her back.

"I'm sorry," he said to her quietly, glancing between Eren and Mikasa with a confused, inquisitive gaze. "But you were beating my friends up."

"They attacked me," Annie said, her head bowed. Her voice was just as cold and lifeless as the rest of her, and Mikasa realized that she recognized the tone. Dead resignation. Annie wasn't going to fight them anymore. At least, not right now.

"You ran away!" Eren cried, as though it was a reasonable defense. "We just wanted to talk to you, and you ran away!"

"Maybe," Annie said, her voice almost too quiet to hear over the din of construction around them, "I don't want to talk to you."

"Of course you do!" Eren scowled down at her, his eyes narrowed angrily. "Don't fucking lie, Annie, you came to find us. I don't know why you're being so weird, but you sought _us_ out. Not the other way around."

Annie looked up at him, half her face monstrously frozen in a red crosshatch of icicles knitting her skin back together. She did nothing, said nothing, and Mikasa wanted to shove her again. Mikasa noticed then that they were drawing a crowd, and the man from the car was now on the phone, glancing at them suspiciously. _Armin_, Mikasa thought. _We need to get out of here_.

_I can't just make us invisible in front of all these people_, Armin said desperately.

_Yes you can_, Eren said. His head was steaming, and he glanced at the man. _Do it when his back is turned_.

Armin stared at them, his eyes darting between the three of them, and then he looked at the man at the car. There were people beeping, trying to get around him, and then Armin pulled his phone out, glancing at the man as he shook his head. _Untie Annie_, he said as he gave a shaky, disbelieving laugh. "Holy _shit_—!" Armin cried, taking a step away from the three of them. "You guys are crazy, I can't believe you actually kept going in the middle of the road!"

_Armin_, Eren said, one eyebrow quirked. _What—?_

_Play along_, Armin said. _Please, just play along, and untie Annie. We need to get out of this without using out powers. There're too many people_.

Eren and Mikasa glanced at each other, and Mikasa released Annie as Eren tore Armin's tie from her wrists. She looked between the three of them, frowned, and sat up straighter. Armin stepped out onto the road as the man called, "Hey, kid!"

"Um," Armin said, smiling sheepishly. "I bet this looks kinda weird."

"Nah," said the man. He was rather tall with shaggy hair, and scruffy facial hair. "I see kids brawling all the time. What's weird is that that girl stopped my car with her bare hands."

"What?" Armin said, blinking up at the man. He glanced back at Mikasa, and pointed. "Her?"

"Yeah!" The man shook his head, and pointed at Mikasa as well with his phone. "Her!"

"I don't mean to sound rude," Armin said gently, "but I don't think she'd be standing there if you hit her with your car."

"I didn't hit her!" The man shook his head furiously. "She stepped out into the middle of the goddamn road, and then she pulled some pseudo-Twilight shit and dented my hood with her hands!" He gestured to the hood of his car, and Mikasa looked down guiltily at the two distinctly hand-like dents that marred its surface. Armin was going to have trouble explaining it.

"Um…" Armin stared at the man with wide eyes, and he glanced back at Mikasa, Eren, and Annie with a distinctly wary gaze. "Okay…? If you say so."

"No," the man said, his eyes widening. "I'm serious."

Armin nodded, and he smiled tightly. "Yeah, yeah, I… believe you…" He took a step back, and Mikasa could see Eren struggling not to laugh. "Um, well, we're going to go now. I'm sorry about your car."

"Wait a second!" the man cried. "You've got some explaining to do. Like, what the fuck just happened. And you should explain it to the police, too."

"What?" Armin asked, his voice going squeaky. "The police? But we didn't do anything."

"You kids were beating that girl up!" He pointed to Annie, who was sitting lazily on the sidewalk, examining the damage done to her pale blue gloves. She looked up when she realized there was attention on her, and Mikasa saw that her cheek was nearly healed completely. She blinked around, and slumped forward.

"I'm fine," she said, just loud enough for the man to hear, and his face contorted in confusion. Armin looked at Annie, and there was a visible relief in his eyes.

"Yeah," Armin said, his eyes rising to the man's. "Yeah, she wasn't actually being beaten up. It was all pretend."

"_Pretend_?" the man spluttered.

"Yeah," Armin said, his eyes growing wide. "Pretend. You don't think they would have actually beaten her up, right? It was just pretend."

"She was bleeding!" the man shouted.

"Fake blood," Armin lied easily, his voice heightening in disbelief. "We were doing it for a video."

"A video," the man repeated incredulously. "Are you fucking—" He looked at Annie, who stood up and tucked her hair behind her ear, showing off her unscathed cheek. Annie clearly was willing to participate in this ruse if it meant avoiding getting the police involved. "Jesus fucking Christ…"

"Yep," Armin said, smiling wanly. "They did it for the vine."

"The _what_?"

"It's a video app," Eren piped up. Mikasa blinked at him. At this point, she was just impressed that Armin had gotten this far.

The man stood for a moment, and he opened his mouth to respond, but he paused when a car pulled up beside him. Mikasa watched as the window slid down, and she met the narrowed blue eyes of Levi. He watched them for a moment, and then leaned over to shout over the construction noises. "What the fuck are you brats doing?"

Eren was the first one to the car, and he flung the passenger door open, hopping into it. Mikasa was right behind him, hastily rushing past the man and jumping into the back seat, leaving the door open for Armin. The boy stood for a few moments, staring at the man, and then he moved quickly to Annie's side, saying something to her that Mikasa could not hear, and then rushing to the car. Annie followed slowly, shoving her hands into the pocket of her hoodie, and both blonds entered the car without a word.

"Drive," Mikasa said sharply, kicking Levi's seat.

"You don't give me orders, brat," Levi retorted. He glanced at the man outside, who was now shouting at them, and he shifted gears and promptly pulled away from the curb.

They sat in silence for about a minute before Levi glanced behind him, and noticed Annie. His expression remained impassive as he turned his head back in front of him.

"Why do I have an extra child?" he asked, sounding inexplicably miserable, as though he had just been told he had four tumors instead of three.

Annie's eyes were focused on the window, and Mikasa didn't know how to respond. She didn't know why Annie had decided to tag along. Mikasa certainly hadn't wanted her to. But, here they were.

"Congratulations," Mikasa said dully, resting her folded hands in her lap. "It's a girl."

Armin's shoulders jerked as he stifled a laugh. Eren didn't even bother to stifle his, and his smile fell when Levi glared at him. "She's from the institute," Eren said quickly. "Y'know, like the rest of us. 'Cept Hange, I guess, but Hange's Hange, so—"

"Yes, fine." Levi sounded vaguely irritated. "Why is she _here_?"

"Well, we didn't exactly get to interrogate her while we were trying not to get arrested," Eren said, slumping in his seat.

"Excuse me?" Levi met Mikasa's eye in the rearview mirror, and she could see the fury behind his chilly gaze. "What did you do?"

"All we did was get into a little fight," Eren sighed. "And none of us got hurt or nothin', not seriously, anyhow, but it'd be a real pain to explain to the police."

"Yeah," Levi uttered through his teeth. "I bet."

"Why did you run away, Annie?" Armin asked suddenly, turning to look at the girl. She didn't face him. Her shoulders merely lifted, and dropped in a lazy shrug.

"Annie," Levi said. "The ice girl?"

"That's the one," Eren said. He blinked back at Mikasa. "Did you tell him about everyone?"

"Yes," Mikasa said.

Eren twisted in his seat to get a better look at Annie. "Y'know we won't hurt you, right?" Eren asked carefully. He sounded almost gentle, which was a little strange and unnerving.

"Is that why you tackled me into the street?" Annie did not raise her eyes.

"You ran away from us!" Eren couldn't seem to comprehend why Annie would be angry with them. "We just want to talk."

"I told you," Annie said. "I don't want to talk to you."

"Then why did you come to our school?" Armin asked. He sounded so quietly bemused, it was hard not to feel a soft spot of pity for him. Even Annie had to glance at him, her lips pressing together thinly in uncertainty. "Why did you come directly to us, only to run away? What scared you?"

Annie sat quietly for several moments, and nothing could be heard but the soft whooshing of passing cars and the radio thrumming at such a low volume that they couldn't hear it so much as they could feel it vibrating in their bones. Annie raised her head, and she looked at Armin for a moment, her eyes flashing.

"You," she said.

Armin sat, staring at her blankly. Eren peeked out from behind his chair, his eyes wide, and Mikasa blinked ahead of her. Levi gave no reaction, but his eyes did narrow a bit from what Mikasa could see of him.

"Wait," Armin said weakly. "What?"

"I was scared you'd read my mind," Annie said.

"Oh." Armin looked absolutely amazed, and a little horrified. "Well, I can't, if that… if that makes you feel any better."

"It doesn't," Annie said.

"Sorry…"

"Don't feel sorry, Armin," Mikasa said. "You can't help your power."

"Armin's not gonna hurt you, Annie," Eren said, tossing his arms over his seat and resting his chin on his headrest. Annie glanced at him, and she rolled her eyes.

"I'm not worried about that," she said, a hint of condescension in her biting voice. "I just… I don't want him in my head."

"Like I said," Armin said. "I can't read your mind, so it's not really a problem. You've got a giant wall blocking me."

"Which hurts _him_," Mikasa said, throwing Annie a sharp, accusatory look. She looked up, and her mouth parted, as though she was vaguely surprised by this information.

"Wait, really?" Annie asked, glancing at Armin. He looked a little sheepish as he shook his head.

"No, it's fine," he said. "It's not that bad, it's just kind of… heavy. In my head. I don't know how to explain it, but it's not unbearable, or anything."

"Okay…"

"Yo, but if it does get bad," Eren said, looking at Annie with a frown, "can you take the wall down?"

"I…" Annie's eyes widened a little. "I don't know."

"Can't you control it?" Eren cocked his head. "You've had your powers for five years. I mean, we've all got our issues with them, but—"

"I've never tried to take it down," Annie said. "I don't even know how it got there. My powers aren't mental. I don't really know what the wall is, let alone how to get rid of it."

"Eren, sit down," Levi said. "And put your seat belt on, before you go through the fucking windshield."

"I'd survive," Eren snorted. He dropped back into his seat anyway, and buckled his seatbelt.

"That kind of thinking," Levi said, "is going to get you killed one day. You can't survive everything."

"I can survive _almost_ everything," Eren said, raising his chin high. "So fuck it if I get a little banged up."

"Did no one discipline you as a child?" Levi asked, glancing at Eren with a frown. "You should learn a little humility."

Mikasa kicked the back of Levi's chair again, and he threw her a disdainful look in the mirror. "Speaking of discipline," Levi said darkly, "remind me to kick your scrawny ass into next Tuesday."

"Not possible," Mikasa said firmly.

"Brat," Levi spat.

"Bastard," Mikasa retorted.

"Are you two related?" Eren blurted.

"No," Mikasa said quickly, in unison with Levi's, "Bite your goddamn tongue, Jaeger."

"Yeesh," Eren grumbled, slumping in his seat. _Is he always this cranky?_ Eren asked. Mikasa could feel him frowning through their link.

_You're no better, Eren,_ Armin said gently.

_Aw, shuddap_.

Eren ended up turning up the radio and fiddling with the station until something he found satisfactory came on. Mikasa had never heard the song playing before, but Eren was rather passionate about it, and Levi completely ignored Eren from that point on.

"Hey," Levi said. "You. Annie. Got anywhere you need me to drop you?"

Annie turned her attention toward Levi, and she blinked at him vacantly. Then she looked away. No one needed to ask what that meant, and Mikasa heard Levi murmur softly, "Fuck."

"Okay," Eren said. "You're staying with us."

"That's not necessary," Annie said quietly.

"Bullshit," Eren hissed, pulling out his phone. "Lemme just call Hange— they'll say yes, duh, but they'll get all hot and bothered if I don't give 'em a warning." He paused as he was dialing, and he twisted his head back to peer at her. "Sorry I fought you."

"Whatever."

It was a little bizarre, taking Annie home. She didn't speak another word, and she stood awkwardly when Hange greeted her, and she compromised to answer all their questions so long as she could shower first. In that time frame, Eren and Mikasa tried to explain what they knew about Annie, but they found that they didn't… really know all that much. Armin simply sat at the kitchen table, his gloves off as he drew little faces in the gathering condensation on his glass of lemonade.

"Well," Hange said, "it could be that she ended up tracking down Eren, but when she saw Armin, she bailed because she didn't want him reading her mind."

"Which," Erwin added, "is suspicious."

"Not really," Levi said.

Hange and Erwin glanced at Levi, who was leaning against the kitchen sink. He shrugged. "Look, I don't care what any of you think, but having Armin inside your head is not fun. So I can't blame this girl for not wanting him to invade her thoughts."

"I'm really sorry about that," Armin said weakly.

"Save it, lemon head."

"Levi's got a point," Hange said. "No offense to Armin, but his power is incredibly invasive. Annie might have secrets, true, but everyone does. So we definitely shouldn't condemn her for that in particular."

Erwin nodded, and Armin bowed his head in shame. Anger prickled Mikasa's senses, and she felt the need to shout at them that it wasn't Armin's fault. Eren beat her to it.

"Armin can't help it if he reads a mind or not," he snapped. "And, I mean, I like Annie, but whatever mental shield she has hurts Armin. That's a problem."

"No, it's not," Armin sighed. "I'm fine, okay?"

_You don't have to lie_, Mikasa said.

_I'm fine_, Armin said. _I swear, Mikasa_.

"On a different note," Erwin said. "I think we should start considering looking into the facility more."

Armin twisted in his chair to face the tall man, his blue eyes growing wide. "I thought you didn't want to get involved in it?"

"Annie's here because she didn't have anywhere else to go, yes?" Erwin shook his head. "That means that the other children who were with all of you could be on the streets as well. And that's very dangerous."

"For them," Eren said. Or, maybe, corrected. His brow was furrowed, and set heavily over his angry green eyes. "Right?"

Erwin glanced at Eren. Very slowly, he nodded. Eren scowled at him. _Armin_, Eren said. _Your dad is a creep_.

_He's not my dad_, Armin said. _And are we really gonna go there, Eren?_

_He was probably hoping you wouldn't remember Dr. Jaeger, Armin_, Mikasa said.

_Fuck, Mikasa, shut up_.

Armin nearly jumped out of his seat as Annie entered the room, wearing a pair of Armin's pajamas, because Mikasa's were too big for her upon inspection. Levi would have been the closest fit height-wise, but it was clear that his hips were too wide, and his pants would merely slip off Annie. So she wore a pair of flannel pants that pooled around her ankles, and a deep gold hued, long-sleeved shirt that had a curvy black script curling around its arms and chest, which Mikasa was pretty certain was Elvish. Annie was still wearing her pale blue gloves, despite the fact they were a little worn from the skirmish with Eren. Her hair was damp, gathering around her shoulders in dark yellow ribbons.

Hange was the first to speak up.

"Why do you wear gloves?" Hange strode over to Annie, plucking up her arm by her wrist. Annie simply stared up at them blankly. "May I?"

Annie blinked rapidly, and nodded. "Just don't touch me," she warned. There was a very clear caveat in her voice that suggested something terrible, but Mikasa doubted Hange's ability to follow the warning.

Hange tugged the pale blue glove from Annie's left hand, and they made a deep, guttural cooing noise. "Oh, wow," Hange gasped. "Wowie, wow, look at that!"

Annie shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot as Hange examined her hand, which was normal more or less in shape but for the various crystals of ice clinging to the pores of her skin. Her fingers, however, were a discolored monstrosity, black like onyx and gleaming with the same stony quality. It wasn't any surprise that Annie preferred to wear gloves.

"How long have your fingers been like this?" Hange asked.

"Since the procedure," Annie said.

"And do you remember that well?" Hange asked, their hand tightening around Annie's wrist. "The procedure."

Annie stared at Hange for a moment. Her eyes darted to where Eren, Mikasa, and Armin were sitting. And then, quickly, she nodded.

"What about everything else?" Hange asked. "The institution is a bit of a fuzzy spot for our trio over there, but do you remember it well?"

Annie stood frozen, giving no real reaction other than a little frown. She shook her head, and spoke very softly. "No," she said. "Not well. It's all kind of a blur."

"What about after you escaped?" Hange asked.

"What about it?"

"Well," Hange said, handing Annie back her glove. "Where'd you go?"

"I wandered," Annie said slowly. Quietly. She looked away, her shoulders hunching. "A lot. I got put in a few different homes. I ran away a lot. Are these the answers you're looking for?"

It seemed to suffice for Hange, because they didn't ask any more questions. So Eren decided to step up to the plate.

"Why were you at the school, Annie?" he asked with a frown.

Annie closed her eyes. It was as though she had trouble communicating, and though Mikasa could not blame her, it was a little irritating. "I…" she whispered. "I just… I found out that you… that you went there, and I…"

"You…?" Eren blinked at her, and he leaned back. "You… wanted to come talk to me?"

"Yeah…" Annie stared at her feet, and she sighed. "I guess. I didn't have anywhere else to go, so I just… I went in the first direction that seemed okay. Safe."

"Safe," Eren said. "Right. Yeah, definitely. We can keep you safe."

Mikasa glanced at Eren, and she leaned back in her seat. "That's what heroes do," Mikasa said, not able to keep the bitterness from her tone. "Isn't it, Eren?"

He didn't seem to notice. "Yep," he said, nodding. He stood up, and Mikasa stared at her hands in her lap, wondering why it was so difficult to get through to Eren, even when they shared a mindlink. She didn't even understand how she could wonder these things, and Eren still would not catch on. Mikasa watched out of the corner of her eye as Eren walked up to Annie, and offered her his hand. "Personally, I think the only way to use the powers we've been given is to help people. So, let's be heroes."

Annie blinked at Eren, her mouth parting for a moment. And then, she nodded very slowly, and took his hand.

"Yeah," she said in a strained, soft voice. "Heroes…"

* * *

_do it for the vine_

_i wrote this like a month ago and i still can't believe i wrote that part_

_Um, otherwise, I don't think I pulled any confusing shit in this chapter. Or at least it's more or less what it appears to be. _


	6. word for word

_**verbatim **_

**Chicago, Illinois**

_a.d. v Kalendas Octobres, 2766 A.U.C._

"Stardust."

Marco's laughter echoed heavily as he flipped from one roof to another. It bounced across the night, blooming with a certainty, and Jean could hear the incredulity there. Marco landed beside Jean, his knees tucked, and he shook his head furiously.

"No way," Marco gasped. "C'mon, Jean. Ricochet and _Stardust_?"

"I dunno," Jean said, flushing in embarrassment. "I was just thinking 'bout your freckles."

"Yes," Marco said, smiling wanly. "Because criminals are going to hear the name Stardust, and look at my freckles, and quake with fear."

"Okay, well, I'm sorry you're indecisive," Jean said. "Just pick a name, Marco, jeez."

"It's not that easy!" Marco sounded almost sad, and Jean felt a little guilty for pushing him. "Plus, Stardust sounds like something you'd call an alien."

"Stardust is a no, I get it." Jean sighed. "But you've gotta pick something. We can't keep using our real names out in the field. It'll get us into trouble."

"Yes, I'm aware."

In the time between their first outing and now, they'd both gotten better at hopping between buildings— they practiced nearly every night— and they'd gotten a grappling gun, and Marco had decided to strap a wooden baseball bat to his back for this particular night out. All and all, they were doing pretty good, though crime had skyrocketed in the city since Nio and Freiheit's disappearance.

"Hey," Jean said, stepping up to the ledge of the building. It was an apartment complex in the shabbier part of town, and thus there was a lot of noise surrounding them. Distantly thrumming music, shouts and laughter and crashing and screaming. Jean saw the man they'd been tailing come walking down the street. "There he is."

"Huh?" Marco adjusted his hood, and jumped up onto the ledge as well. "Oh, hey."

"How'd you figure out it was him?" Jean asked, glancing at Marco curiously.

Marco smiled sheepishly. "He was on the list of suspects, but I cross-referenced it with a set of phone records I, uh… acquired."

"Stealing from the police?" Jean clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, and shook his head. "I'm such a bad influence on you."

"Oh," Marco said softly. "I wouldn't say that…"

"Yeah, you're right." Jean stretched his arms above his head, and let his body balance precariously on the edge of the building, wind fluttering against his exposed lips and neck. Jean had upgraded to a police helmet and goggles they'd found while scrounging yard sales. Marco still wore his hood, though he admitted he could go for some goggles as well, if need be. "If you were really going for the dark side, you'd start smoking."

"One day," Marco said quietly, "you're going to have lung cancer, and you're going to come to me and ask me why I didn't make you quit all those years ago. And do you know what I'm going to say?"

"Uh, fuck you, Jean, you unbearable asshole," Jean offered, patting down his shoulder pads and making sure all of his belongings were secure. He'd lost a good few packs of cigarettes because of his negligence, but thankfully everything seemed to be in place. "I told you to quit eighty years ago, and now look at you, all wrinkly and wheezy, and look at me, fit as a fiddle and running marathons, and shit."

"Ha ha," Marco said, smiling weakly. "No. I'll tell you that no matter the cause, the outcome is the same. I'll be standing over your hospital bed, and maybe you'll have a few grandkids, and they won't even know who I am because we grew apart years and years ago, but you called and I came anyway, because we'll always be best friends, and I owe it to you to be there, and you'll be joking and making a fool of yourself, and I'll just have to smile along and pretend not to be upset, and then I'll tell you that even if you did quit smoking, you'd still end up in that goddamn hospital bed, because you can't fight fate, and you can't fight death."

Jean stood for a moment, stunned by Marco's words. And then he glanced at the freckled boy, and gave a sharp, derisive snort. "Dude, that's way too fucking existential for me, what are you even on right now?"

Marco smiled, and this one was more genuine than the last. "Caffeine," Marco said. "Mostly. I'm running on chocolate too, if you're wondering."

"If that's all you ate all day," Jean said, pushing off the ledge and striding toward the fire escape. "I'm kinda concerned."

"I had sushi earlier," Marco said.

"Ew," Jean said, wrinkling his nose. "Kay, fine then." He lowered himself onto the fire escape, managing to make very little noise, and he began his trek slowly downward. "Shit," Jean said as Marco dropped down behind him. "What's his apartment number?"

"We can ask someone," Marco said.

"It's two in the morning," Jean said. "No one is gonna be remotely helpful, and you know it."

"We'll figure it out," Marco whispered. They came across an open window, and they glanced at each other. Jean nodded, and he slipped into a very small living room. There was no one there, so he crept through the room without making a sound, and he got to the door and quickly unlocked all the various locks, biting his tongue as his heart drummed wildly against his ribcage. As soon as he got the locks, he flung the door open and hurled himself into the hallway.

They stood for a moment after Marco closed the door, and Jean took a deep breath of stale air, of the scent of beer and cigarettes and decay, and he blinked rapidly to calm himself down. Marco put a hand on his back, and Jean glanced at him. He shrugged him off, and rubbed his head irritably. This was definitely a stressful job, and they both had to be very, very careful.

"C'mon," Marco murmured, walking forward. "We'll find the guy faster if we look around. He couldn't have gotten far."

"What's his name again?" Jean whispered, stepping in time beside him.

"Uh…" They moved between doors, looking around the hall curiously, cautiously, blinking and bowing their heads as though hunching would hide them from anyone else lurking in the light. "Crap. Nick, I think."

"Is that his first name?" Jean asked, rolling his eyes. "Or his last?"

"You ask too much of me," Marco whispered, his voice as light as a feather as he gave a small chuckle. "I don't know, Jean."

Jean whacked his shoulder. "No names in the field," he hissed. "Remember?"

"Oh," Marco said, blinking fast. "Right. Yeah. Ricochet, I mean."

"Fuck yeah, you do."

They reached a stairwell, and Marco led them both downward. "Well, that's not really fair though," he whispered. "Because I don't have a moniker yet."

"Well, if you'd fuckin' pick one, then we wouldn't have this problem."

"It's so hard, though," Marco mumbled, tossing his head back to look at Jean. "Do you think I could just check out the SAT verbal words like you did?"

"That's not how I—" Jean cut himself off, scowling at the back of Marco's head as he laughed. "God, you're an ass."

"I disagree," Marco whispered. "I'm also arms. And legs. And a lower and upper abdomen. I'm feet too, and—"

"I'll push you," Jean warned. "I'll push you down the stairs, I swear."

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry."

"You're a dick too, though."

"I'm comfortable with that."

Marco dealt with insults remarkably well. Perhaps he was just used to them. Jean wondered what Marco was like before their friendship. Probably not as snarky, for sure, and quieter. Jean was certain that Marco had picked up some personality tics from Jean, whether Marco liked it or not, and vice versa. It was just how friendships worked. They both had a habit of pulling their scarves over their noses in the winter, solely a trait of Mikasa's that had attached itself to them like the plague.

They both froze as two figures appeared on the stairwell. One was small, and sort of measly looking in comparison to his bulky companion. Marco and Jean pressed themselves up against a wall, hoping the darkness would cloak them as the two men came closer. Jean could vaguely hear them speaking, the smaller one in a soft, yet almost regal voice. He was older than his companion by years and years it seemed, because the other man sounded gruff, but young, possibly in his twenties. He certainly looked it.

"It's this way," said the older one. His arm extended slowly, and Jean held his breath. He was so close that he could see the man's arm shaking in the light of the hallway that was just out of Marco and Jean's reach. "Room 7b."

"Well, thank god," said the younger one. "I wanna get out of this hell hole, and fast. It gives me the creeps."

"He left her alone," the older one murmured. "In a place like this…"

"Let's just get her, and get out," the older one said comfortingly. "And leave all this shit behind us. Huh?"

"Yeah…" The older one took a deep breath, and stepped into the hallway, followed by the younger one. Marco and Jean stood for a few moments, before Marco carefully took a step down, and then another, and peeked out into the hall. Jean felt the need to bark at him to step but, but he couldn't breathe, and he didn't dare to. _What do we even do?_ Jean thought numbly. _Where do we go from here?_

He didn't know. He wasn't a strategist. He wasn't even a good hero, he was just a kid with a smoking problem who felt the world's painfully tight grip as it crushed him, and Jean just wanted out. He wanted an existence that was not dictated by the day-to-day life he led. He wanted something different, something fulfilling. He wanted to be a hero, but he had none of the skill or strength, and so he was just wading in a pool far too deep and far too chilly for his tastes.

Perhaps he should just quit while ahead.

"Okay," Marco whispered, stepping out into the hall. Jean all but choked on a gasp, and he felt the need to pull Marco back. "They just entered 7b. See, told you it'd work out."

"Oh my god," Jean hissed, his fear turning to bitterness very fast. "Well, aren't you just psychic."

"Actually," Marco said, turning his face to Jean's. He winked, and Jean scowled at him. "I'm just lucky."

"Yeah, kay," Jean said, shoving Marco forward. "Let's hope you're lucky enough for both of us, huh?"

"Of course," Marco said, carefully moving into the hall. They both fell silent, and Jean swallowed uncertainly, pulling a gun from its holster and cocking back the safety. Marco had pulled his baseball bat from his back, and they moved swiftly without a sound through the dimly lit hall, which was crawling with vermin and festering with dark spots that could possibly be mold, or something else, and Jean held his breath as they reached 7b. Jean held his gun with both hands, and Marco glanced at him. He began to mouth a countdown.

On three, Marco shouldered open the door, and Jean raised his gun and strode into the room, shouting without thought, "Freeze!"

The younger man blinked at Jean, and he flung his head back and laughed. The older one had jumped, flinging his arms up with wide eyes, and Jean noticed, sickened, that he was wearing the black garb of a priest, down to the white collar around his neck. The younger one was burly, and his face, visible now, looked to be chiseled like that of an ancient roman statue, hard and square and defined as though out of marble. He had blond hair, cropped short and thin, and he wore gray hoodie. He clearly wasn't ready for a skirmish, and yet he still laughed.

There was a lamp on a small table that illuminated the room, and in the corner there was a small, shabby mattress with a twisted mass of thin brown blankets tangled about a tiny body. On the mattress, a girl jolted awake, bolting upright in shock, one sleeve of a white nightgown slipping precariously over her bony white shoulder. She looked no older than thirteen, her face round and her eyes innocent, and her hair a twisted mess of flax bundled around her pale shoulders. She blinked groggily in the lamplight, and then squinted through it.

"F-Father Nick?" she stammered, her large blue eyes darting around the room. Jean was disturbed by the scene, and he wasn't sure what he was even doing. He had no plan. He was just praying this all worked out. "What… what's going on? Who…?"

"P-please," Father Nick said, glancing from the girl to Jean. "Put the gun down."

"Seriously," the burly one said, folding his arms across his chest. "You don't know what you're doing."

"And what are _you_ doing?" Jean snapped. "Taking advantage of a little girl?"

The girl shrunk back, and her eyes darted around furiously, as though in search for something. Then her eyes fell on the priest, and they grew wide. No, wide didn't begin to describe the flashing of awe and surprise that took over the girl's face, mild terror gleaming in the reflection of her pale blue eyes.

"Look," the burly one said, holding up his hands. "I think this is all a big misunderstanding. We're all on the same side."

"He's the one who kidnapped her!" Jean jerked his gun at the priest, while Marco stood behind Jean, bat in hand and ready to strike.

"I'm not!" Father Nick gasped, waving his hands furiously. "I'm not Father Nick!"

Jean gave a sharp, scornful laugh. "God, what did you shoot up, pal?"

"No," the girl said, her eyes gleaming with fear. "He's telling the truth. He's _not_ Father Nick."

Jean's arm drooped a little. "Wait," he said slowly, glancing around. "What the fuck?"

"Same at you," the burly one said. "We're here to save Christa. What about you?"

"Same…" Jean said slowly. He didn't think it was right to trust the burly one, and he definitely didn't trust the priest, but the girl, Christa, looked so certain that Jean couldn't help but believe her. She had a sweet, angelic face, the kind that could grace her with any and everything she ever could want.

"T-thank you," Christa said, jumping to her feet. Jean noticed they were bare. "I mean… I didn't want anything bad to happen to Father Nick, but—"

"He wasn't going to hurt you," the priest sad softly. "He just wanted to take you back to your father."

Christa stood for a moment, her large eyes narrowing as her tiny hands drew into fists at her sides. Her white nightgown fluttered at her knees as she strode forward. "That would hurt me," Christa said sharply, her quiet voice ringing in the silence of the room. "That's the worst thing anyone could possibly do to me."

"Well, then," the burly one said with a big smile, clapping his hands together, "it's a good thing we're here!"

Christa paused as she stepped closer to Jean's gun. "You can put that down," she whispered.

"Look," Jean said, raising the gun again and pointing it at the burly one. He gave a long groan of agitation. "I dunno what's going on, but I don't trust these guys. They don't make any sense, and frankly, that's enough for me to want to get you as far away from them as possible. So, let's go."

"Why should she trust you?" the burly one asked, quirking an eyebrow. "You're just as much of a stranger to her as we are."

"Because," Jean said heatedly, "because we're—" He had no real answer to that. What made him and Marco the better choice for Christa, anyway?

"Brawn," Father Nick said suddenly, his eyes flashing wide. "I think I've been in this body too long."

"What?" Brawn took a step forward, his arms extended. "Okay, fuck, you should just let go of him, then."

"I don't know if I can," the priest whispered, tears glimmering in his eyes. "His soul is latching onto mine, and it's… it's fighting me. It's winning."

"Then get out!" Brawn looked angry and terrified all of a sudden, and Jean could feel his hands getting sweaty beneath his gloves. "Go back to your body, damn it!"

"But he's holding _onto_ me, Re— _Brawn_, he's— he's fighting back, and I don't know if I can…"

"Let go!"

The old priest shook so violently that Jean thought the man was having a seizure, his shoulders shuddering as he buckled and fell to his knees, making soft, breathy wheezing sounds, and Jean nearly dropped his gun as the man collapsed on his hands and choked on a myriad of clipped, rapid words flinging from his mouth thoughtlessly. Jean could hear his voice, strained and rasping, and he could hear the fluidity of the language the priest spoke, the archaic heaviness to every punctuated syllable.

"_In nomine Patris, et Filiis, et Spiritus, Sancti_—"

"Oh my god," Brawn groaned, resting his fist in his hip as he massaged his forehead. "You're not possessed, Father! Well, not by anything that'll hurt you, anyway. He's actually a really good guy— better than _you_."

"Wait," Jean said blandly, "what? The fuck?" His eyes flashed from Brawn to the convulsing priest, and he could see all the goddamn horror movies he had ever witnessed as they rushed through his mind in that moment and projected themselves onto the writhing, gargling man on the floor. "What the fuck."

"You wanna put that gun away," Brawn said, looking at Jean expectantly, "and help me tie him up?"

"Tie him—?" Jean's eyes could only widen in shock as the priest collapsed onto his side, clutching his chest and heaving.

"You—" He squeezed his eyes shut, choking on his words. "Oh, God, God, help me, God, help _you_—"

"Quit it," Brawn sighed, nudging the priest with his toe. The man flinched, recoiling from Brawn as though the man carried the plague, and he skittered across the floor, still breathing heavily and looking close to a heart attack. His face was ruddy, blotchy, and the man looked close to tears, though he seemed to gain a bit of composure as he glared up at Brawn. "What happened to my friend?"

"If God is just," the man snapped, his eyes flickering like a match set afire, "then he's in _Hell_."

"Well, he was inside you," Brawn said with a grim smile. "So, pretty close."

Jean almost laughed at that, though he felt a little guilty. The priest was kind of pitiful now. Jean still kinda wanted to punch his face in, though. He glanced at Christa, who was standing near her mattress, hugging her arms, and looking extremely concerned. It was then that Jean realized that Brawn probably was not actually working with Father Nick, but with… whoever the fuck had been possessing him. That was strangely comforting.

"Yo," Jean said, turning his gun upon the priest. The man looked absolutely horrified, and Jean felt a twinge of pity. "Spill it, pops. Why'd you kidnap Christa?"

The man's eyes darted from the gun to Christa's face in the corner. And then the man pulled himself rather shakily upright, and he raised his head high. "You seem like a nice boy," the priest said. Marco gave a soft little chuckle from beside Jean, and Jean was all but ready to shoot _him_ instead. "So hear me. That girl is not who— not _what_ you think she is."

"Um, excuse me?" Jean's hands tightened on the gun. "That sounds like a crock of shit, Father. You don't call people "whats", that's just fucking rude."

"Do you think shooting me will help you?" Father Nick asked, his eyes widening. "Do you think she will?" He raised a trembling finger toward Christa, who took a step back in alarm. "You're a fool. You're all fools. You have no idea what she is, what she's _capable_ of—" A sickening _crack_ reverberated through the room, and the force of it hit Jean, who nearly dropped his gun in the mere shock of it. The meaty smack of wood catching flesh was enough for Jean to suck in a sharp breath and wince in sympathy for the poor old priest, whose head snapped forward upon impact with Marco's baseball bat. He crumpled, crashing onto his side, and Marco stood over him for a moment, bat steady in his grip.

Then, his mouth dropped open, and he dropped the bat with a squeak. "Oh god, oh god," he gasped, clamping his hands over his mouth. Then he slid them up to his eyes and whirled around. "Please, please, please, someone tell me he's not dead!"

"He's not," Christa said suddenly from the corner, her voice a strange but welcome chilliness in the torrid silence.

"Dude…" Jean stared at Marco worriedly, reaching out with his right hand to touch his shoulder. "You okay?"

"Y-yeah…" He peeked out from beneath his fingers, and nodded quickly, taking a deep breath. "Yeah, I just… I just feel really bad, I didn't really mean to do that— I just got really pissed, and…"

"Nah," Jean said, shrugging. "I would have done it if I had a bat instead of a gun, no worries."

"Hey," Brawn said. "So, I'm gonna go. Since, you know, I did what I came here to do. You two are welcome to tagalong."

Marco and Jean glanced at each other. It only took a moment to decide, and Marco scooped up his bat just as Jean holstered his gun. They all stood awkwardly for a few moments, waiting for someone to make the first move, until finally Brawn clapped his hands together and shrugged his mighty shoulders. He looked to Christa, who was now gathering a small pile of clothes, and she hugged it to his chest.

"Well," he said. "Uh, I'm Brawn." He led them out the door, rubbing the back of his neck as he moved. "The guy who was in Father Nick's body, he's called Skinner."

"Skinner?" Christa asked softly. "Like… flaying?"

"Uh," Brawn said, glancing at her with a frown. "No. No, I don't think so. I hope not. That'd be awkward."

"Okay, good," Christa murmured.

"So are you guys vigilantes?" Jean asked, glancing at Brawn's back with bitter suspicion. Marco stepped in time with Jean quietly, and Jean had to wonder if he really felt so guilty about hitting the priest. It wasn't like the guy didn't deserve it anyway.

"I guess you can call us that?" Brawn shrugged. "We just do whatever we can, I guess. There's not much else for people like us."

"People… like…?" Jean could not comprehend that. _People who what?_ Jean thought irritably. _Who have power? Because I'd fuckin' pay big for a super power_. He noticed Christa as the entered the stairwell, the tiny girl who looked up at Brawn sharply, as though she was only seeing him for the first time, and her eyes darted across his face curiously. She said nothing, but her face spoke volumes and volumes in some foreign tongue.

"Yeah," Brawn said, waving offhandedly into the darkness. "Y'know, that Spider-man quote, and stuff. I'm perfectly fine with using my power to help people out. It's not like I've got anything else going for me."

Jean listened to him, and he couldn't help but feel a little awed by the man. He spoke as thought his life revolved around this incredible play of heroics, as though there was nothing else, as though he was stuck in this situation and had no choice in the path her chose. Jean didn't know whether to admire him, or pity him.

"You have a power?" Jean asked, blinking up at Brawn as they continued down the darkened stairwell. Light fluttered through their path every so often, illuminating the man's severe features, but Jean was beginning to doubt that Brawn was so scary after all.

Brawn laughed easily, as though Jean had asked him if he went to school. "Oh, yeah," he said. "Nothing exciting, like Skinner, but yeah. I'm, uh…" He scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "I'm actually pretty much impervious. My skin doesn't break. You could throw me into a brick wall, and there'd be a Brawn shaped hole in it." He grinned broadly. "Tried that once. Hurt like a bitch, but damn, it was cool."

"Wow," Jean said, his eyes flickering about Brawn's frame. Jean didn't see why he needed powers to bust up a brick wall, honestly. The guy was built like a professional wrestler and a linebacker had procreated, giving way to the existence of some bearlike crimefighter. He wasn't as tall as Jean had initially thought though, which was interesting. "So, like, if I stabbed you…?"

"Go for it."

Jean nearly stumbled on the last step leading out onto the street, and he stared at Brawn vacantly for a moment as Christa and Marco went ahead. Marco asked the tiny girl something, and she shook her head fast, but he merely frowned, his eyes glimmering worriedly in the gleam of the streetlamp. A car whooshed by, and a cat screeched quite loudly from somewhere across the street. Other than that, there was silence, and it dug into Jean with a set of claws that grazed his skin cautiously initially, and then without warning attached itself to him with a fierce, desperate grip.

"Wait," Jean said slowly, "seriously?"

"Yeah, dude," Brawn said, his eyes widening with a strange, masochistic sort of glee. He rolled up the sleeve of his gray sweatshirt, and jerked his chin at Jean indicatively. "Do it. Don't hold back either. Just jam it like it'll actually go in."

Jean, too curious to resist, pulled his extra blade from its sheath. He recalled the feeling of stabbing the thug way back on that first night a few weeks previous. The instinctual action of ramming glass through the tight-knitted fabric of the man's jeans, through the layers of epidermis and into tough muscle. He hadn't even thought twice about it at the time, never taking a second to regret it, to feel guilt or pity over the violence, and he'd merely kicked the man just to solidify his own chances of getting away.

Maybe Jean just wanted to know how guiltless he truly was. Maybe he couldn't understand why he felt a little empty, stabbing and punching and kicking without a hint of remorse. He had yet to shoot anyone, but he was certain he was well on his way, and Jean realized his list of felonies was only growing— and rapidly.

Jean held the knife loosely between his gloved fingers for a moment. Then his fist tightened around its grip, and he drove the blade against the joint that connected Brawn's forearm and bicep. There was moment of shock as the impact vibrated in Jean's bones, like his arm had gone to sleep and now his nerves were afire with pins and needles, and they were spreading _everywhere_. The blade gave an almost timid screech, soft and swift, and it bent so quickly that Jean had not even realized the damage done until he pulled the knife back shakily, and saw that the blade had been violently disfigured.

Jean raised the knife to his eyelevel, his arm beginning to ache from the blunt impact, and he sort of felt like he'd just knifed a concrete slab. "Jesus fuckin'…" He twirled it momentarily, watching the dented blade spin like a pinwheel.

"Uh…" Marco said gently. "Ricochet? Maybe you should try not stabbing people from now on."

"Shut your fuckin' mouth, Mar— man." Jean tossed the useless knife aside, and glanced at Brawn's arm. It was, miraculously, completely unblemished. And Brawn was smirking with the satisfaction of knowing that his powers were at least amusing.

"Told you," Brawn said. He then paused, and waved to someone across the street. Jean blinked, and followed his gaze. There was a very tall man standing beside a car, leaning against it for support, and looking rather shaky even from the distance. Brawn turned to look at Marco and Jean. "That's Skinner's actual body."

"So," Christa spoke up suddenly, "he's like a bodysnatcher?"

"Uh, basically," Brawn said with a short laugh. He waved them forward as he did a quick check both ways, and jogged across the street. They followed cautiously, Marco and Jean glancing at each other with equally wary gazes. As they neared the man and the car, they found that Skinner was not intimidating at all. In fact, he was a gangly, long faced boy who looked about ready to wipe out on the asphalt. Brawn strode up to him and caught him around the waist, tossing one of his arms over his shoulder. "You okay, buddy?"

"No…" Skinner mumbled, his entire body buckling and collapsing against Brawn. He looked very sickly, his tan face sallow from infirmity. "D-don't ask me to skin another priest anytime soon…"

"Yeah, sorry," Brawn said, looking sheepish. "He was a nasty piece of work, huh?"

Skinner closed his eyes, and said nothing. So Brawn carefully pressed his hand to his forehead, and frowned worriedly. Christa pushed forward suddenly, looking up at Brawn with wide eyes. "Excuse me," she said, raising her head very high in order to look into Brawn's face. "But he needs to rest. Or, maybe go to a hospital. He's very weak, and he could die."

Brawn stared down at her, and then he frowned further. "I'm really not sure what the hell you're talking about," Brawn said. He glanced down at Skinner, and Jean could sense the distress in him just by observing the way his eyes flickered rapidly, searching Skinner's for any sign of life. "Fuck. Okay, I don't have money for a hospital."

"Well," Christa said weakly. "Home, then?"

"We don't have a home." It wasn't said with sadness, or anger, or even loss. It was said with such an offhand breeziness, that Jean had to wonder if Brawn and Skinner had been on the streets their entire lives.

Christa looked up at Brawn with sympathy in her gaze. "Me either," she admitted. She looked up at the sky as Jean and Brawn looked down at her in shock. "Not a place that I can call home, anyway."

Jean could almost hear it. The sound of Marco's heart breaking. _No_, Jean wanted to say, to smack Marco over the side of head and berate him for being such a miserable, idealistic fool. _No fucking way_. But Marco merely smiled dimly in the flickering yellow light that streamed down from the streetlamp. He rubbed his cheek with the back of his hand, and stared at Brawn with glassy eyes.

"My mom isn't home," Marco said quietly, his eyelids sliding heavily over the glaze of his eyes. "She's on a trip to Oregon for the week. If you want, you can stay at my house until Skinner feels better."

Brawn stared at Marco, his mouth dropping open, and Christa looked equally surprised. She studied Marco's face, and it was as though she was looking at him for the first time. Her eyebrows rose in awe, and she did not bat an eye as she searched his appearance for some deep, daunting secret, but she couldn't seem to find it.

Brawn looked as though he was about to throw his arms around Marco and squeeze him to death. "Are you serious?" he asked breathlessly.

Marco nodded, and continued to smile gently, as though he was dealing with a small child. "Absolutely," he said firmly. "My house is always open to heroes."

Brawn looked alarmed in an instant, and then a little flustered as he laughed nervously. "Hero?" He glanced away. "Nah. We're not heroes…"

"Sure you are," Marco said, his voice almost forceful as he stared into Brawn's hard blue eyes. "You're a hero whether you like it or not, because you want to help people. You have good intentions, and I think that counts."

"Okay, enough," Jean said. "You are not inviting these strangers into your house, sorry."

"Yes, I am," Marco said, not looking at Jean, not even sparing him a little ferocity. He merely sounded bland, like a robot repeating lines fed to him through a keyboard. And, just like that, Jean realized that Marco wasn't just playing along with a game that Jean had begun. Marco wasn't there to be Jean's sidekick, and he wasn't there to make sure Jean didn't kill himself either. Marco was there, simply, because Marco loved to help people. There were no complexities beyond that. There was just Marco, and his capacity to love, and Jean had to wonder how he had managed to get roped into being friends with someone so excruciatingly kind-hearted.

"Asshole," Jean grumbled, pinching the bridge of his nose irritably. "Whatever."

"Who are you guys?" Brawn asked, wide-eyed and awed.

"He's Ricochet," Marco said, glancing at Jean. "And I'm… uh…" Marco frowned. And then, his eyes lit up for a moment, and he kicked up his baseball bat excitedly. Jean could practically taste the idea that had run through Marco's head.

"Don't you fucking dare," Jean warned. Marco, unbelievably, ignored him. "Don't do it. _Don't_—"

Marco twirled his bat in one hand, and grinned goofily. "I'm _Batman_."

"You're not my friend," Jean declared. "I don't know you. Good fucking bye."

But Brawn was roaring with laughter, and even Christa was giggling a bit. Skinner's head lolled, and Jean shook his head in disbelief. _This is so dumb_, Jean thought as they all squeezed into Brawn's car. _Who thought this was a good idea? Why are we trusting these two random guys with superpowers, and why are we just letting them come with us?_

"So where are you from, Christa?" Marco asked, after directing Brawn to where his house was located. Christa had been sitting quietly between him and Jean, her eyes cast down at her hands. She jumped at the question. It was then that Jean noticed that Marco had given her his hoodie, and she was pulling at its too-long sleeves as they pooled over her wrists and gathered around her fists.

"A… lot of places…" She sounded distant. Uncomfortable, perhaps. "I was in Boston when Father Nick caught me, though."

"Boston?" Jean was surprised. Halfway across the country, and she was still rather calm about the entire ordeal.

Christa nodded eagerly, and looked up at him. "I really need to get back," she whispered, rubbing her eyes tiredly. "My friend… she's got to be looking for me… and she doesn't do well on her own, she gets all nervous and angry, and she takes it out on people."

"Really?" Marco asked, tilting his head as he smiled down at Christa. "What's your friend's name?"

"Ymir."

"What?" Marco asked, his smile falling. His eyes widened momentarily, and Jean's eyebrows rose.

"What kind of name is that?" Jean snorted.

"I don't know," Christa said quietly. "It's… just her name."

They arrived at Marco's house a little outside the city limits, and Jean was too exhausted to even care about the threat of strangers any longer. Skinner was laid out on a couch while Marco and Jean blew up an air mattress for Christa. Marco went so far as to bring down his own twin mattress to make them all comfortable, and Jean had almost taken it and hit him with it.

"Gimme," Jean mumbled, reaching greedily for the blanket Marco had dispensed. He used the end of Marco's mattress as a pillow, and fell asleep hugging the blanket, his entire brain shutting down without a blip of sense to any of his actions thus far. He wished he could be okay with that.

* * *

_i finished the fourteenth chapter and i am numb to the world, and you'll understand why when you get to it, but without spoiling any of the bullshit (there's a lot) i shoved into it, i'll warn you that it ended up being around 20k. which is why i haven't updated in a little while. _

_special thanks to angie who gave me a bunch of awesome advice when i was having trouble writing that chapter, like wow, you are the best, thank fucking god i have you, i'd probably die without you._

_as for this chapter, umm? christa. my angel. light of my life. _

_most important thing about this chapter tbh, like everything else is dumb gay men i don't care about them. christa steals the spotlight wherever she goes._

_Okay, you can tell I'm hyped on happiness from finishing the fourteenth chapter. I'm so sorry. Thank you for reading if you got this far, and please review. _


	7. in memory

**Trigger Warning for mentions of physical and sexual abuse**.

* * *

_**in memoriam**_

**Lancaster, Pennsylvania**

_a.d. Kalendas Octobres, 2766 A.U.C._

Levi had never wanted children. He could recall a distant voice asking him about kids, if he wanted them one day, and his simple reply had been that children were messy. He still didn't want kids. He didn't know why he was suddenly responsible for fucking four of them, but he really didn't want them.

Or, perhaps, he was lying all along.

It didn't matter either way. He was stuck in his shitty situation, but at least he wasn't stuck alone. Erwin was in the same boat, though he seemed to be enjoying the ride rather than getting violently seasick. Levi sometimes watched how he dealt with Armin, how the man touched Armin's bare skin without even flinching, and Levi couldn't help but wonder if it had taken years to gain the boy's trust, or if Armin had never recoiled from Erwin, like he never recoiled from Mikasa or Eren.

Either way, it didn't matter much to Levi so long as Armin wasn't touching _him_.

Now, Levi didn't need telling that Armin wasn't a bad kid. He was infinitely better than Mikasa to handle, at least. Armin and Eren at least made their beds. Levi had to wonder how he'd gotten stuck with the stubborn bitch of a child, and he sometimes wished he'd had Eren or even Armin instead— but then Levi would recall with a vicious shudder of recollection that Armin's powers were volatile, and Eren had health issues that Levi would never have been able to pay for, and he realized he was rather lucky, being saddled with Mikasa. And perhaps she wasn't so bad.

Levi didn't particularly _want _to like the kids. He didn't want to become attached to a bunch of teenagers who were kind of awful, in a snappy, rebellious sort of way that Levi just had no patience to deal with. Mikasa had been hard enough on her own, but now Levi had to cart around Eren and Armin and now Annie too, who was an utter mystery to them all because she simply did not emote what she was thinking or feeling. And Levi was no better, not really, but he wasn't a teenager, and he had his reasons.

But they weren't bad kids. That was… that was the fact of it. And Levi, try as he might, could not help but feel an intense obligation to them. He had to curse his fucking heart for being so weak in the face of pitiful children, but he couldn't help thinking back to his own childhood, and wishing someone had taken care of him just a little bit.

"You're very good with them," Erwin said a few days earlier, after Levi had returned from dropping off the kids at school. He'd been leaning his back against the fridge, smiling wanly, and Levi had opted to ignore him. He gathered up the papers Eren had left on the kitchen table, flipping through them to make sure they were nothing the boy actually needed. They looked like they were just things that Hange needed to sign, so Levi straightened them out and set them aside. "You know, it took me years to figure out Armin."

"Lucky you," Levi said dully, grabbing a rag from a ring beside the kitchen sink, and wiping off the crumbs from the table. He was thankful they'd all gotten into the habit of clearing their own plate, though Mikasa had still left hers until Levi yelled at her. "I still don't understand Mikasa."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true," Erwin said. "You know exactly how to get her to listen to you, which is impressive, and you know her tastes— what kind of sandwich do you make her everyday?"

Levi paused as he scooped up a glove from beneath a chair, recognizing it as Armin's from its dark color and thick fabric. "Peanut butter and nutella," Levi said. "So what?"

"And she always eats it," Erwin said, his eyes twinkling in that vague, all-knowing way of his. "Correct?"

"Yeah, okay," Levi said, his jaw tightening in irritation. "Fine. I know her. But that doesn't mean I understand her."

"You know all of them," Erwin corrected. "You know what time Eren has to take his insulin every day—"

"It's the same time every day, it's not hard to figure out."

"— And you can tell the difference between Armin's and Annie's gloves—"

"They're different colors," Levi sighed, holding up the navy glove in his fist, "and completely different sizes."

"— You know not to give Annie anything heated, and you know that Armin likes musicals, and you know that Eren won't eat vegetables unless they're cooked, and you know that Mikasa's scarf can only be hand washed and dried, and you know—"

"Holy fuck," Levi said, tossing Armin's glove at the man's chest as he passed him. Levi had caught the boy humming some song that morning, murmuring words under his breath. Levi realized the words were in German from the few that he caught. The song had sounded familiar, like something dredged up from the cold depths of Levi's memory. "I get it. I'm fucking attentive. So are you, apparently."

"Well, yes," Erwin said. "I like to know who I'm living with."

Levi grunted in reply, about to exit the kitchen. They had all agreed search the remains of the facility they had escaped from, but they had also agreed that they didn't think it was safe for the kids to come. So on that Tuesday, Eren, Mikasa, Armin, and Annie would go to school as normal while Freiheit, Augur, and Polymath investigated the reason behind their powers. He'd been planning on doing a bit more looking into about the building itself, which was in Pennsylvania, but Levi paused in the doorway. He turned back to Erwin, his eyes narrowed.

"How much do you know about me?" Levi asked slowly. He was cautious with Erwin, because Erwin was intelligent enough to already know everything he needed to know about Levi. Armin was considerate enough to not pry beyond whatever he had seen the day they had first met, Hange was indifferent enough to not give a flying fuck about where Levi came from, just how useful he was to the cause, and Mikasa had no real motivation to _want_ to know Levi. Erwin, however, was the type to pry into things that were not his business. Levi knew that from experience.

"I know you well enough," Erwin said, never batting an eye. And Levi felt a little cold, a slither of chilly mortification starting down his throat. And then, upon reaching his stomach, the slither turned into a twisting, vicious ache, and for a moment Levi thought he was going to vomit. He knew. That was clear.

Whatever.

"It's funny," Levi said, raising his chin just high enough to make his suspicion clear to the tall man. "Because I don't know shit about you, Erwin."

"Oh, that's not true," Erwin said, his smile flaky on his lips. "You know that I was in the army."

"I know you participated in some war, or another," Levi said. "I know that when they cut open your head, you didn't scream or fight it. I know that you're a pacifist now, and I know that you had to have made the same kind of deal I did to get the power you have. But I don't know why. I don't know a single goddamn thing about you, Erwin, not beyond what I learned at the facility."

"Is that really bothering you?" Erwin looked a little alarmed, and Levi wanted to punch the shock right off his smug fucking face. Yes. _Of course_ it bothered him. Levi's past was the kind of nasty, incriminating story that no one had any right in knowing. "My past isn't anything worth knowing, Levi. I was born and raised in Baltimore, and decided to do military service right out of high school. I didn't have a hard childhood— my father was a teacher at my elementary school. I was moderately popular, I was valedictorian. Is this the sort of information you wanted?" Erwin shook his head, and Levi's fists clenched at his sides. "I'm sorry to disappoint you. But there is no tragedy to my story."

"Liar," Levi said, whirling around. "Nobody sells themselves to a life of being experimented on for no reason."

Erwin said nothing in response. That had been the last conversation they'd had for four days. Levi was endlessly surprised by how much money Hange actually had, because they had their own fucking private jet, and that was just unfair. He decided not to make a rude comment about it, though, because she had given him a rather nice coat modified to suit his wings. So he didn't have to worry about shredding the fabric whenever he decided to fly. Which was nice.

"Are you sure you don't want something a little more…" Hange glanced over his simple attire, a black overcoat, a pair of slacks, and knee-high boots. And his Nio mask, of course. "Hero-y?"

"You mean…" Levi said dully, his eyes cast out the plane window. Erwin was piloting, which was unsurprising, but Levi realized with a great agitation that he was the only one out of the three of them who could not pilot a plane. He didn't need to know how, really, considering he had fucking wings, but still. That would need to be remedied. "Spandex. No. I'm perfectly fine with what I'm wearing."

"It's not actually spandex," Hange said, smiling brightly. "It's a bulletproof polymer—"

"Don't care."

Hange pouted. They were in their own costume, a white lab coat, prescription goggles, and a formfitting black and green suit. They had quite a few different utility pouches, belts that criss-crossed along their chest, around their waist, and right thigh. Hange was certainly prepared for a fight, if it came to one, but frankly Levi was concerned about how they could move with all the weight.

"Were they angry when you took them to school?" Hange asked, tilting their head as though it didn't make a difference to them.

"Yeah," Levi said. "None of them talked at all. But they've got that creepy mindlink, so who knows what they were actually saying to each other."

"You think it's creepy?" Hange gasped, their eyes flashing wide. "But it's so _cool_!"

"Try having Armin inside your head," Levi said icily. "Then tell me how cool you think it is."

"But Armin's cool too," Hange said vacantly. "Like, he's so smart and sweet, Levi, why do you have to be so mean?"

Levi stared at them, and shook his head, turning his attention back to the window. He watched the clouds pass by below, the sun hitting them and making them appear fatter and whiter than they actually were. He wasn't interested in arguing about Armin to Hange, because Levi didn't hate Armin. He was just severely creeped out by the kid, and probably would never opt to be alone in a room with him for very long, but that was mostly out of discomfort. He was a good kid, and his power had its uses.

They landed the plane in a field nearby where the remnants of the facility were. There was a great expanse of flatland as far as Levi could see, and he had vague memories of flying over this very same field five years previous. Only then, it had been very dark, and smoke cloaked. There was a cornfield wavering in the breeze to their left as they made their way to the facility, which looked like nothing more than a large, dilapidated old factory.

_Gross_, Levi thought glumly as they neared the facility. At least they knew that no one was still using the building, considering a chunk of the exterior looked as though it had been bitten off, blackened and charred with ribs of wooden rafters and gleaming metal skeletons peeked out of the slowly decaying walls. Lichen and ivy and even some grains had begun to devour the building's broken carcass. Levi frowned as they neared the massive, yawning opening in the front corner of the crippled structure, entering from the scorched side of an entrance that should never have existed.

Foliage bent underfoot as the entered the dark, spacious room. There were three cracked, dusty computers that had been overrun with nature. There were mice skittering across dirt-encrusted keyboards, and Levi hunched in discomfort. Levi watched Hange release a set of tiny winged robots that fluttered into life and whirred softly before beginning to scan the surface of the room.

"Yes," Hange cooed, "fly, my pretties!"

"You need to be medicated," Levi said dully.

"I am," Hange laughed, though Levi could sense it was forced, glancing back at Levi with a wink. "Proscription Adderall."

"Why is that not surprising."

Hange rolled their eyes, and held up a compactable screen they'd retrieved from one of their many utility belts. "Anyways, these are my babies. Just got 'em out of the prototype stage, so let's see how they work."

"Aren't you a physicist?" Levi asked cautiously, frowning at one of the robots as it flew very close to is face. He pushed it away lightly when it tried to scan him.

"I'm a polymath," Hange said, their voice breathless and teasing. "I'm not limited to physics."

"These aren't the main computers," Erwin said suddenly, pointing to the sad, filthy remains of the tree computers ravaged by the fire that he and Levi had started. "They kept the mainframe downstairs."

"It'd be nice if we had your hacker lady friend, Levi," Hange said, directing her little toys toward a door. "You should ask her to consider heroing."

"She's not interested," Levi said, though he was lying. Petra loved helping with the vigilantism, and would gladly join them as their official hacker if Levi asked. Which was why he wouldn't. She'd been such a phenomenal friend to Levi in the years that he'd known her, and Levi did not want her to end up like Farlan and Isabel. He regretted to this day allowing her to be in his gang years ago, though the worst that had happened to her had been a twisted ankle, and he'd regret letting her fight crime too. He'd rather it if the girl just lived her life happily, normally, and left the past in the past. She was too smart for the world to lose, and too loyal for Levi to lose. Petra Ral was not someone Levi was willing to let become a casualty.

"Huh," Hange said. They stepped forward, ducking under a half-fallen beam, and followed their abominations toward a door. Levi followed them reluctantly. "What exactly are we looking for?"

"Names," Erwin said, his black cloak shielding his face from view. "Of the subjects from this facility, mostly, but also anyone who worked here. Any benefactors."

"Also," Levi said, recalling his own experience in the facility, "where Dr. Jaeger went."

"Eren's father?" Hange sounded very wary, and Levi wondered if they were scared that Grisha Jaeger would come back to claim his long abandoned son. "Oh, right, didn't he do all the procedures?"

"He was a creep," Levi muttered. _How did an angry, righteous kid like Eren come from that son of a bitch?_ Levi thought, glancing around. He could now recognize his surroundings as they entered a hall less touched by the ferocity and vivacity of nature. "A manipulative shitface who experimented on little kids, including his own son."

Hange smiled wanly. "Eren doesn't like talking about him," they said quietly. "He talks about his mom sometimes, though."

"His mother?" Erwin asked curiously. "And what happened to her?"

"He doesn't like to talk about that," Hange said softly. "But I know she died."

"I'm gonna bet," Levi said, glaring around the white halls around him, illuminated by the whirring robots as they scanned the building, "that all the kids in the facility were orphans, or close to it."

"That's probably the case," Erwin said. He sounded distant, and Levi glanced at him. _Fucker_, he thought. _What the fuck is your story?_ Usually Levi wasn't one to pry, but fuck, Erwin was too secretive, and Levi couldn't stand it. "I asked Armin once if he remembered his parents, and he said that he didn't even know if his last name is really Arlelt. As far as he knows, he was raised like a lab rat."

_At least he can't remember any of it,_ Levi thought. He'd give anything to forget his youth. He'd tried everything to forget it, and yet it stuck with him like a brand. A stigma that could not be washed away. It was ingrained in him.

He began to notice, with a sickened jolt, that his surroundings were becoming eerier and eerier as they moved deeper into the facility. In the shadows, the great, yawning shadows that swallowed the entirety of the labyrinthine halls in chilly, twisted silhouettes of old cameras and exposed insulation, there was a familiar image of a dark head peeking out from behind a wall, dark eyes gleaming and dark face obscure, and Levi could see nothing but short, dark hair arranged in two messy pigtails hanging precariously below the ears.

Levi had a brief, desperate desire to flee the facility, flee like he'd fled it five years ago, flee like he'd fled the rest of his past, flee like he was meant to, with his glassy tattooed wings and instinctual sense of self-preservation. Levi sometimes thought that he was just born to fly away from his problems, because it was much easier that way— but that wasn't true. He _chose_ to fly away, just like he _chose_ to escape from the dreariness of his past, like he _chose_ to turn to opium and sleep his way through half his life. He'd been given wings to flee from the world, but he'd been born into the world with the strength to fight it. Fight or flight was not a decision for Levi. His life was one of intersection, in which he had the choice to fly away, but the instinct to fight until the bitter, bloody end.

It wasn't incredibly surprising to him, though he had a feeling of dread that clung to him like cobwebs crawling across his hair, and he felt the need to tear at his head in a sickened daze, because he felt unclean, and impure, and that was a terror that haunted him. He was haunted. It was in his eyes, in his voice, in the vacant stare that watched in bemused anguish as the familiar silhouette met his eye, and then with a clear fury in her movement, whirled out of his sight.

"Wait," Levi croaked. He could hear a boy in his voice, drunk and angry and sick with life. Hange and Erwin turned to face him, but he was already stumbling down the hall in pursuit of a ghost. "Wait— _espera o alto_!" The words felt thick on his tongue, like old liquor, too sweet and too bitter and too much as it slid down his throat. He hadn't spoken Spanish in years and years and years, not since he'd held a tiny teenage girl's body as she struggled for breath, her bloody lips pressing to his chest and choking on pleas, on words he couldn't understand— _cuidate… cuidate, Levi_—. And now he was chasing her ghost, feeling stupid and dazed, as though he'd come to the facility sick the first time, and regained it upon entering the second. He could see her silhouette against the dim, dusty, fire scarred walls, and he pursued her like a madman, his eyes following every flicker of the shadow cast by her miraculous body.

Isabel Magnolia had been seventeen when she'd died. Levi could almost see her face, bright and warm hued, like caramel beginning to burn away in an oven, and he could hear her laugh inside her head, and suddenly Levi could see Farlan too, and it was an ache that would not dissipate. Levi had met Isabel at a job. Upon realizing Isabel's age, Levi flat out refused it. She'd been utterly shocked by the refusal, and he remembered the look on her face— her face, which had barely been fifteen at the time, round and vaguely chubby with hints of her youth gleaming through rouge and mascara. He remembered it all with a sudden clarity, and he felt guilty and sick when he recalled that his refusal had gotten Isabel a black eye. The encounter had not stopped either of them from working, but they were angrier now than ever. After they met Farlan, who was in the same position as them, they had all agreed to abandon sex work and never look back.

Unfortunately, it wasn't so easy— Levi had stayed true, purely because he'd never been able to stomach it in the first place. He'd quit for a few years after his powers had manifested on account of being a hazard to the health of clients, but he'd been driven back by a series of different addictions that needed paying for. He'd been about nineteen upon meeting Isabel. She'd had a difficult time kicking the habit— periodic relapses surfacing every few months, and Levi had to deal with her pimp whenever she came home bruised or bloody. He didn't mind having to protect her— he'd quickly become her "big brother", and that had driven him to a greater purpose, and lifted him out of his haze in order to fulfill her image of an elder brother— but he'd been frustrated to find that she couldn't pull herself out of her rut.

She needed something to root her to a better life. She needed something fulfilling. So, one day, after a particularly nasty night (she'd come home with an eye swollen shut, a split lip, bloody nose, and one pigtail chopped clean off), she'd declared to Levi and Farlan that they were going to be heroes. Levi hadn't really understood it, and thought she just had a concussion, but she'd been serious. And eventually, somehow, they'd just taken to the streets in a form of vigilantism. They didn't really care about thieves or drug dealers— no, their targets were rapists, pimps, and sexual predators of any kind. And Levi had felt… satisfaction in killing them.

Of course, it had all faded fast after Isabel had decided to take down her old pimp herself. Farlan had tried to stop her. And Levi had not been there.

Levi didn't need to lament about what could have been. He knew, of course, Isabel and Farlan would be alive if he'd been with them. But that pain was old, and it was more like a faint scar now, anyway. He'd been helped and helped again through it, and now it wasn't even a dull ache. It was just an itch that he couldn't scratch, a ghost pain in his chest, and yet here he was. Chasing a dead girl.

"Don't you want children, Levi?" Isabel had asked once, lying over the back of the couch precariously. He could almost hear her chewing bubblegum, almost smell it, sickly saccharine and expanding inside his memory blooming and popping, and he heard it, smelt it, felt her stare. Farlan was laughing at her gently, telling her that she had bubblegum on her chin, and Levi just stared and stared and stared ahead of him, his heart thudding hard as he pushed himself off a wall, leaving a fist sized hole in the white, cracked foundation.

Levi hated himself for this. He hated that he was too weak to tell the difference between reality and reverie, but this was no dream, and he could swear that the blur was real. He could hear her panting, cursing in Spanish as she stumbled. _Cuidate, Levi,_ a rasping, trembling voice mumbled in the chilly catacombs of his mind, of his heart, and he felt the word vibrate against his chest, smearing blood across his ribs, a tattoo and a scar. Ghosts and corpses laughed as the girl stumbled, Levi knew this was his chance to catch her. So he picked up his pace, his steps all but denting the floor, and he tackled the girl (who, he realized a little too late, was much too tall to be Isabel) through an open doorway.

She grunted upon impact, and it was too dark in the room to see her face, but Levi knew. He knew how mistaken he'd been. Of _course_ she wasn't Isabel. She didn't sound like Isabel, she didn't smell like Isabel— she was probably just a kid who'd been dared to go into the creepy old building, and Levi had gone and tackled her. That was fucking spectacular.

He felt the girl squirm a little, as though she was surprised that he overpowered her. She exhaled sharply, and snapped, "_Qu__í__tate de mi_."

Levi felt guilty for pinning her so hard to the ground, but hearing her speak Spanish made him sick to his stomach. _Eres horrible… irracional… sin verg__üenzas— pero eres humano… no se te olivide. Creo en ti… creo en lo que puedes hacer_… It felt like she'd punched him in the gut just by uttering her command, as though by having the ability to speak Spanish she had become the ghost of Isabel Magnolia again. But Levi couldn't delude himself. She'd never been Isabel, and he hated himself for being so hung up over the past. He'd learned a long time ago that the only way to go forward was to let go. He needed to keep reminding himself that nothing good could come keeping the dead from peace. Isabel was dead, yes, and wishing she wasn't would do nothing.

"Do you speak English?" Levi asked the girl, unable to keep up the language. It tasted poisoned with alcohol and blood, and he could still smell the intermingling scents as he stumbled upon the bodies of his two best friends.

The girl stopped squirming for a moment. And then she repeated, "_Qu__í__tate de mi_. _Pendejo_."

Levi couldn't help but sigh in irritation. He heard footsteps, and he continued to pin the girl down. "_Lo voy hacer_," Levi said. The words left his mouth, and they sounded bland and tasted just the same. "_No corres_."

She scoffed at that, and Levi cautiously rolled off her, still holding her arms tight enough to hold her in place, but not to hurt her. He could feel her glare, but he couldn't find it in him to care. A light filled the room, and Levi felt the girl go rigid, as though she had not expected more people to appear. Hange's flashlight fell upon Levi's face, illuminating his mask, and the beam illuminated the features of the girl before him. She was slender, long-faced and warm-skinned, with dark, furious eyes and bared teeth. Freckles danced across her cheeks and her nose and her chin and down her neck, dark and plentiful, and Levi saw that the girl was definitely a teenager.

The girl had dark skin, dark hair, and short pigtails, but her resemblance to Isabel ended there. Levi could not believe his own blunder, but it didn't really matter much now. At the very least he'd caught her. And she stared at him, her eyes flickering over his mask with a mixture of curiosity, confusion, and caution. She then tugged rather hard on her arms, and Levi let go of her, watching with a bored expression as she crashed backwards into a table at the center of the room. But as light was spilt onto it, and Levi got a better look at it, he realized it was no table. It was a chamber, a pod— a coffin. The girl froze upon pushing herself to her feet, her fingers locked around the edge of the coffin, and Levi listened as she took a deep breath. Her body loosened up considerably as she put space between herself and Levi.

And then, without warning, she whirled around, her arms extending in front of her, and Levi watched as something spluttered, like a human mouth greedily gasping for air, and suddenly the entire room lit up. The light was blinding and fierce, stretching the entire expanse of the room, which was pristinely kept in comparison to the rest of the facility. The white walls where lined with charts and graphs and pictures, and Levi blinked rapidly, noticing an antique camera among a pile of yellowed books. They were illuminated by the wisps of flame swirling off the girl's dark, skinny arms. The fire was not like any fire Levi had ever seen, but like some kind of controlled art, like the girl was making the fire flutter and jump with every breath, and it hummed and hissed, alive in a way that Levi could not fathom as it licked up and down her arms and along her fists and kissing her knuckles. She opened her palms, and the fire coughed, and laughed, beautiful and deadly as a flame reached outwards ever so slightly and recoiled back to the firm safety of the girl's skin.

"Right," said the girl, raising her chin jauntily, "so who the hell are you lot?"

"So you do speak English," Levi mused, eying her flaming arms apathetically. Levi was strong enough that he could pick up Hange and Erwin and fly them through the roof, if it came to it.

"Well, yeah," said the girl, rolling her eyes. "Your accent is awful, pal. Thought you might wanna know."

Her words hit Levi rather hard. Because though she didn't look as much like Isabel as Levi had initially thought, she acted a little too similarly to the dead girl. And Levi really didn't need any more reminders of the dead. "I know," Levi said numbly. _Isabel said so_.

"Wow," the girl said, her eyes moving between the three of them. "No reaction? Really?" The girl flung her head back and laughed. "My arms are on fire, and all you folks can do is frown at me all stern-like!" She mimicked their expressions, or what she perceived as their expressions, and it was almost a little funny to see her dark, freckled face scrunch up in the flickering firelight, yellow hued and shadowy.

"You were a subject here," Erwin said suddenly.

The girl looked at him quizzically. Her angular face had a strange, fay-like quality to it that made her look inhuman in the writhing glow of her flames. She had the face of a girl who looked painted, as a little crooked and stylistically imperfect, but made to be stared at, and it made Levi very uncomfortable, because she did not look real. She looked creepy.

"Subject?" The girl had an odd accent, cocky and smooth. It was a drawl, and beneath it the sound of her Spanish roots could be faintly detected, but there was something about her tone that made her sound out of place. Old. Her voice was low, but a little too sweet, like something he'd hear out of a fuzzy phonograph. Levi noticed she was wearing a pair of jeans, and a long purple shirt that ruffled at her shoulders, and was loose and layered with chiffon and lace. Levi suspected the shirt was supposed to be a dress, but not for someone the girl's size.

"Yes," Erwin repeated. "Doctors experimented you. To give you that power." Erwin pointed to her fiery arms, and the girl looked down at them and blinked.

"Oh?" She cocked her head, and her pigtails bounced as though they had not been secured properly. "Is that what they did?"

Erwin's face was impossible to read. "Can you remember?" he asked cautiously. It was clear he was treading somewhere very thin, and Levi wanted to hit him. "It's understandable if you don't."

"I wasn't given this." The girl waved her flaming arms, and the fire leapt against the air, whooshing and whispering, growing brighter in intensity and burning Levi's retinas. "I've always been like this."

"Oh," Hange chirped. "Like Freiheit, then?"

The girl stared at Hange blankly, and then turned her eyes to Levi. "Ain't that a superhero?" she asked. She made an odd little face, and she sighed. "Oh. That's it, then. You're superheroes." She sighed loftily. "You really messed with my friend's mind, you know. Ever since she saw people like us starting to fight crime, she went all dotty with the idea."

"Was your friend a subject too?" Hange asked.

The girl shrugged. Her eyes were narrowed. "Yeah," she said. "I guess. That's not the word I'd use, though."

"What word would you use?" Levi asked. He couldn't help his curiosity.

"Um," the girl said with a short snort. "Patient."

"Either works," Erwin said. "If you don't mind us asking, what's your name?"

"Yes, I actually do mind your asking, thank you." She eyed Erwin suspiciously. She still had her arms extended, a precaution, but her body was very loose and carefree. She looked completely comfortable with her surroundings. "_Asquerosos_."

Levi glanced at Erwin, but if he was insulted, he did not show it. He pulled down his hood, and Levi watched him with bemusement as he stepped forward, his hands up in surrender. "I call myself Augur," Erwin said, "but my name is Erwin Smith. I'm a librarian from Baltimore. Who are you?"

The girl looked momentarily stunned, and she took a step away from Erwin, her back pressing up against the open coffin. Levi was reminded of an insect— a butterfly, perhaps, all motley wings that gleamed in the sunlight, beautiful by anyone's perspective but a scavenger nonetheless— trapped in the agony of daylight and frozen in terror of being caught and pulled apart.

"'Tain't your business," said the girl stiffly. "Why are you here, in any case?"

Levi bit his tongue from responding icily, "That isn't your business, either." Instead he just stared sulkily at the girl, whose arms were on fire, and whose eyes were dark and filmy with uncertainty.

"We're investigating," Erwin said. "We were subjects here as well, but at the time we weren't aware that there were children. We're attempting to track down anyone who was too young to consent to experimentation, to help them as best we can. You said a friend of yours was part of the experiment as well?"

The girl's eyes narrowed. And then, her shoulders drooped, and she looked around the room with an idle curiosity, pretending it all interested her. "Well, yeah," said the girl. "You know… I'm actually looking for her." She eyed Erwin with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity, as if she suspected suddenly that Erwin could be of use to her. "She disappeared a few weeks ago. I've been wandering around, trying to find her…"

"We can help," Hange chirped. Levi rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help but smirk a little as Hange took a step toward the girl, eyes glinting madly in the glow of the flames. "Of course, you'll need to help us too, if you don't mind. We just want to get to the bottom of all this experimentation business, y'know?"

The girl didn't seem to be listening. "Yeah, sure," she said. "But you can find Christa, right?"

"Yes," Erwin said firmly. Levi almost laughed aloud. _Stop making promises you don't know that you can keep_, he thought. "Now, what is your name?"

The girl did not respond. She was looking about the room, her eyes darting suddenly in the firelight. She marched up to one wall, shaking her left arm rapidly until the fire leaking from her pores guttered out. Her right arm was still aflame, but the fire had rolled from her bicep to her forearm in a heated, splashing orange wave, and it kept flowing down to her wrist in a spitting flow of flame, like water flushing from a gutter. It gushed around her fist, hissing wildly as she opened her palm and the fire of her skin flashed excitedly with so much intensity that Levi could feel the heat of the flame from where he stood near the doorway of the odd, tomb-like room.

The light was now a small, revolving sphere of fire wheezing in the girl's cupped hand, floating eerily inches from her skin, connected by a single ribbon of steel blue and white-hot flame. The girl held it above her head as she bent forward, squinting at the data and photographs that were tacked to the eggshell white walls. She reached out, looking a little shaken up, and her fingers pressed against a faded black and white photograph.

"What…?" the girl whispered, tearing a photo from the wall and bringing it to her face. Levi saw writing on the back, an archaic cursive script that was written in long-fading ink. He stepped closer as Erwin began to look around the room as well, and he was able to read the delicately swirling letters. _Me and Ilse, Age 10, Gallows Hill, 1923_. The girl was frowning, her eyebrows knitted together in confusion, and she continued to stare at the photograph with an expression the flickered between vacant and crippled, her emotions rapidly fluttering like a flame, warm and rapid and constantly changing. Then the girl gave a sharp, pained gasp, and she dropped the photograph and stared at her hand for a moment, anger flickering in her eyes as well as anguish, and Levi caught the small picture before it fluttered to the ground.

He realized quickly why she had gasped. The photograph appeared a once pristinely kept vintage snapshot of two people standing before gray, grassy area, rocks poking out from the ground and shrubbery growing all around them in twisted black limbs that reached toward the sky in an eerie desperation, and simultaneously dropped to the soft, gray grass in unparalleled defeat. There were two people. A girl, slender and boyish by design, her bony shoulders jutting out from the thin straps of her crew-collared dress, which was pale in color and heavily beaded with what looked to be pearls. She had a jaunty look to her, a daunting, fay-like gleam in her black eyes as her bob of black hair curled across her freckled face, wind catching her entire body off guard, tipping her ever so slightly into the shoulder of the second individual. It must have been a lovely photograph, all but a minute ago, before the fire girl had accidentally burned half the photo where the second individual's entire body stuck out into the shot. The only remnant of them was a bony hand resting against the scrawny ten year old's shoulder, lighter hued and grainy. A thumb shaped scorch mark marred the surface of the photograph, but did no damage more than that. She'd dropped it before it could catch fire.

"This girl," Erwin said suddenly, pulling another photo from the wall. Just like the Gallows Hill photograph, this one was of a scrawny freckled girl, though this time she stood unsmiling on the porch of a house overlooking a lake. She was wearing a plainer dress this time, a dark monochromatic frock that hung very loosely to her curveless frame. She was barefoot, her one ankle cocked as though her foot was cramping. She had a glass bottle of coke in her hand, and she studied the camera and the photographer as though they were something nasty that had gotten stuck to the bottom of her foot. "She looks quite a bit like you."

This was true. The girl in the photographs looked remarkably like their fire starter. They had the same slim, impish face, dark tinted skin, myriad of freckles splashed all across her face and neck and shoulders and arms. Ilse. That's what it said beneath the snapshot Erwin had picked up. _Ilse, Age 10, 1923, Great Pond_. The fire girl stood silently, her eyes moving around the room in awe and bemusement.

"Yeah," the girl said, her voice thick. Levi could hear her Spanish accent creeping in. "She does, doesn't she?" She blew her hair out of her eyes, and she straightened up considerably, raising the sphere of fire in her hand high above her as she shrugged. "That's my grandma. Ilse Langner."

Erwin smiled dimly. "Ah," he said. "Was this your room, then?"

The fire starter nodded, though she didn't look entirely certain. Levi noticed that Hange wasn't invested in the photographs at all, but rather in the small coffin— and Levi realized, sickened, that it was too small to fit an adult, so it must have been a child's— which she was all but pouring over, her hands running across its lid and sides.

"Ah!" Hange cried triumphantly, whirling to face the girl. "They froze you to keep your powers in check, right?"

The girl stood for a moment, looking apprehensive. But then, she nodded. "Yeah," she said, shrugging. "It was whenever I couldn't control it, y'know. Don't remember a whole lot of it, which is why… this whole room is skeevy as hell."

"Skeevy," Erwin repeated thoughtfully. The girl bristled, and her lip twitched in irritation.

"_Creepy_," she corrected herself. "_Mierda_…"

"Agreed," Levi said. He pushed up his mask, and she blinked at his face curiously. "This isn't a subject room. It's a shrine."

"What?" the girl said blankly.

"Oh my gosh," Hange gasped, their eyes brightening up. "You're right! This is all pretty typical worship behavior— all the pictures and memorabilia, and what not—" Hange held up a chain, dangling it from their fist, and Levi saw a silver locket gleaming in the firelight. "I'll bet this is yours, right?"

The girl looked at them with indifference. "Yeah," she said. "I lost it when I escaped. It must have broken off from being frozen so many times."

"Uh huh," Hange said, smiling. "Sounds about right. So, what happened to your grandmother?"

"I don't know," the girl said, folding her arms across her chest. "She died before I was born."

"What's your name?" Erwin asked, for the last time, Levi knew, because his voice had lost quite a bit of his genial nature.

The girl exhaled sharply, and her eyes darted around her irritably. "_Mierda_," she repeated with a hiss. "You're persistent. It's not Ilse, pal, sorry to disappoint." She gave a bold smirk, and raised her chin haughtily. "It's Ymir."

"Like the Norse Ymir?" Hange asked eagerly.

"Sure." Ymir rolled her eyes. "Whatever floats your boat."

"Pretty," Erwin said with just enough conviction to make it seem like he truly meant it. Ymir scoffed anyway.

"Uh, yeah," Ymir said. She strode up to Hange and took the locket from her fist. "Okay. So, are you gonna help me find Christa, or what?"

"We will," Erwin said. "I swear to you. But first we need to finish up gathering the data we came here for." He looked around him, and he glanced at Ymir with an odd little smile tugging at his lips. "You don't mind if we take these pictures, do you?"

Ymir had paused just long enough for Levi to know that she had more invested in them than she wanted any of them to know. But she shrugged, and said, "They're not mine. Do what you want."

"Good," Erwin said. He turned to Levi, and nodded curtly. "Freiheit, gather anything from this room you suspect could be valuable to our research. Polymath, come with me. We need to access the main computers."

"You got it," Hange said. They glanced back at Levi and Ymir, and then walked toward the door. "What about Ymir?"

"Yeah," Ymir drawled. "What about me, bossman?"

"You can help Freiheit," Erwin said. Levi began to pluck at pictures on the wall— Ilse. All of them. A sepia photo of Ilse standing knee deep in Great Pond, grinning toothily with a pole resting on her shoulder, and a great bass dangling from the thin filament clutched in her bony, freckled knuckles. _Ilse, Age 10, Great Pond, 1923_. A baby photo of Ilse, not quite freckly yet, but plump and grumpy looking, in a woman's arms. _Ilse and Inc., Age 0, Sina, 1913_. Ilse, just a tiny, chubby toddler, her arms linked around a woman's neck, and her dark mouth buried into her shoulder as her black eyes stared icily at the camera. _Ilse, Age 3, Sina, 1916_. On the back of this one, there was a note written in broken English. _She miss you. Back soon and live_. Levi spotted one of someone else with Ilse, their back turned to the camera, but he noticed it was marked with, _Me and Ilse, Age 6, Sina, 1919_. Before he could get a look at it, he heard Hange's voice utter anxiously, "Hello?"

He whirled around. Hange was on their cell phone, and their face had been drained of color. _Fuck_, Levi thought. He didn't need anyone to tell him who was on the phone. He could figure it out by Hange's face.

"Excuse me?" Hange asked sharply. "What do you mean they didn't show up?"

"Fuck," Levi said aloud this time. Ymir glanced at him, and snorted. He noticed she was standing by the antique books. The pile looked smaller than it had before. And Levi noticed for the first time that she had a backpack. If only because it seemed to have gotten rather fat.

"What do you do?" Ymir asked suddenly. She looked him up and down, and he felt a squeamish discomfort at her gaze.

"Enhanced strength," Levi muttered.

"Sweet."

"I didn't know there was a fire starter here," Levi said, half-listening to Hange ask frantic questions to the secretary of the kids' school. "Guess you didn't play with the other kids much."

Ymir looked at him, and she smiled broadly. "Nah, constant isolation for me," she said cheerily. There was a bite to her tone that Levi caught, and he had to frown. "Christa, too, she never got out much. We never even interacted until she let me out of my cryostasis the night the building kicked it."

Levi nodded. "Someone's been taking care of this room," he said quietly.

"What?"

Levi said nothing. He looked around him, the pristinely kept shrine of Ilse Langner, and her granddaughter's cryochamber at its heart— Levi knew decay. He knew dirt, dust, filth. He knew it, because he'd grown in it. Like a stunted weed, he'd sprawled into life in a Sodom, in a trench, in a dark, windowless room, with whispers and disgust to feed him.

So he could fucking tell when a room in an abandoned, dilapidated building was given caretaking. The room certainly wasn't up to his standards of cleanliness, but it was far too untouched after five years of rot, wild, and char. Not only that, but if Ymir was telling the truth (which Levi doubted, but did not care about), then all the pictures and graphs and possessions of Ilse Langner had been put in place after Ymir's escape.

This was really fucking weird.

"Thank you," Hange was saying in a strained voice. "No, it's fine— don't alert the police, please, I'm sure I can find them— yes, they're so stupid, they probably decided to skip. Thank you for calling me. Yes. Bye." Hange's hand was shaking when they pulled the phone from their ear. They met Levi's eye, and he saw real rage in their expression for possibly the first time ever. "I'm going to kill them."

"Get in line," Levi said dully.

"Don't jump to conclusions," Erwin warned. "They could have taken initiative upon seeing an opportunity to help someone."

"Yeah, okay," Hange said, scowling, "but they need to _tell us _when they do stuff like that!"

"Who is this?" Ymir cocked her head. "What's going on now?"

"Our kids," Erwin informed her. "They're missing."

Levi was struck with an incredible, infuriating revelation. Erwin wasn't surprised. He wasn't even worried.

_You motherfucker_, Levi thought, meeting the man's placid gaze. His thick eyebrows rose, likely at whatever expression— or lack there of— graced Levi's face. _You knew this was going to happen all along._

* * *

_Okay, so the first Levi chapter! I actually only just finished the second, and I'm so glad, because I love writing his chapters. Um, major apologies for the backstory though. I felt uncomfortable writing it, which is why I didn't go into detail with it, like I would if it was literally any other backstory under the sun, but this is the backstory I like using for Levi. And it's probably better that I don't give you any more than a glimpse of it. If you go back and reread what Armin took from Levi's mind in the third chapter, it might make more sense now._

_Also, remember to keep in mind that these characters are unreliable narrators. Also, Ymir! Gosh, her dialogue was weird for me. (It's awkward bc she's an awkward person, geddit) Mmm, what I can say for sure about this chapter is that it was very important plot-wise. The next few chapters are kinda an arc, which this one fits into only by taking place on the same day. Also, don't worry about these three finding the kids. It's not really a matter of finding them as it is the time it'll take. I'm making a note of that because the way I wrote some of the upcoming chapters can be a little weird, and I don't really get to explain the details of what happened to these three between now and then. Because nothing really happened. It's enough of a gap that I feel like I need to state it, though. Anyways, you'll see what I mean, it's weird._

_This story gets weird._


	8. spur of the moment

_**ex tempore**_

**Chicago, Illinois **

_a.d. Kalendas Octobres, 2766 A.U.C._

Jean had learned a few things in the few days he'd been around the trio of actual fucking superheroes, who actually had powers and dark pasts and secrets. One, no one ever wants to be able to jump bodies. It gives you paranoid schizophrenia. A mild case! But still. Schizophrenia. Two, Brawn and Skinner's real names were Reiner Braun and Bertholdt Hoover. Jean had asked as politely as he could if he could just use their monikers, and Marco had kicked him very hard underneath the table. Three, Christa Lenz had healing abilities.

"It's not actually healing," Christa explained early that Tuesday, wearing a long shirt of Marco's that reached to her knees. Jean had spent more time at Marco's house in three days than he'd done in the three years Jean had known him. "It's more like… oh, how do I explain…"

"You heal people," Jean said, offhandedly waving. "That's enough for me." He'd slept over Marco's house for the third night in a row, and his mother was beginning to worry. Jean explained, with a painful amount of detail, that he and Marco were working on an English project revolving around _The Crucible_— Marco had done most of the lying for Jean, who had yet to actually read the play. Marco had apparently read it seven times.

"I actually hate it," he had admitted guiltily. "I hate the portrayals of the people— real people! But I like reading it and laughing at how Abigail Williams is like, five years older than she really was, and having the motivations of a grown woman." Marco smiled wanly. "She was just a little girl who was really scared, Jean. Arthur Miller messed her up."

"You read it seven time," Jean had said. "I can't even read a comic book I _like_ once."

"I hate it in a _loving_ way."

"Also, wasn't that chick responsible for the deaths of like, hundreds of people?" Jean had asked.

"Twenty five," Marco had said quietly. "Or was it twenty six…? And that's questionable, by the way."

Jean had no idea what that meant, but Marco actually had done his research, so Jean trusted him. Anyway, his mother had bought it after some major embellishing on the details of the project, and now Jean was basically living at Marco's house. Bertholdt was more or less back to health, with a little help from Christa, but he'd admitted that he didn't really know exactly what it normal felt like anymore, so he couldn't be sure if he was really okay. Jean couldn't help but pity him.

"Well…" Christa said, tugging Marco's shirt over her legs until it stretched and covered her feet as she pulled them up. She sat on a stool at Marco's kitchen table while Reiner shoveled down whatever breakfast Marco had made, which did not include any meat. Because Reiner was a vegetarian, apparently. Jean didn't eat breakfast, so he wasn't really interested. "Okay, then…"

"We've still gotta figure out how to get you home," Jean said, frowning at the tiny blonde girl. "Sucks none of us have money."

"Ymir will find me," Christa said with a soft smile. "I'm sure of it."

Jean stared at her blankly. "Good luck with that," he said as gently as he could. Christa's smile tightened, and she looked away. Jean felt immensely guilty, but he didn't know how to apologize.

"Morning, Bertholdt," Marco called from the stove. Jean blinked, realizing the tall boy had walked in without Jean even noticing. "I'm making you an egg. Is that okay?"

Bertholdt flushed, and his eyes darted around nervously. "Oh," he said. "You didn't need to—"

"You need to eat," Marco said. "And as my guest, I get to feed all of you. Except Jean. Jean's not a guest."

Christa glanced at him questioningly, and Jean barked a laugh. "Yeah, I'm more like a permanent roommate," he said. "'Cept usually he's crashing at my house. I've literally never been in this house for this long, it's sorta creeping me out."

"It's a little empty," Marco admitted. "I wish I could say it wasn't, but…" He smiled sadly, and flicked off the stove, bringing a plate over to the table. Bertholdt sat down reluctantly, and murmured a thank you.

Jean didn't ask about Marco's dad. Jean didn't even know if Marco had a dad. He knew Lizzie— Elizabeth Bodt, Marco's more or less absent mother— and that was it. It was sad, but aside from paying for his basic needs, Marco was basically parentless. And Marco didn't seem to mind. Apparently he felt like Jean's home was enough, or something.

Weird.

"That's why he avoids it like the plague," Jean explained. "Because he hates his mother, and plans on running away to join the circus."

"Not a bad idea," Marco admitted. "I totally could."

"We could do the trapeze." Jean grinned. "Fuck knows we trust each other enough."

"Yeah," Reiner said suddenly. "Don't you guys like jump off buildings together?"

"Yep," Jean said, a rush of pride flooding through him. "No powers for us. Just years and years of gymnastics paying off."

"And luck," Marco added.

"Yeah, Marco's all about luck," Jean said, rolling his eyes. "Doesn't want to admit a thing about, y'know, _talent._"

Marco hummed idly as he checked his phone. "Talent?" He sounded lofty. "No, Jean, trust me. We're only here because luck. And fate, maybe." He didn't look up from his phone. "But you don't believe in any of that."

"I believe that there's some weird shit in this world," Jean said. "But sure, call it what you want."

"I believe in fate," Christa said, staring at Jean with her large, innocent blue eyes. Sometime Jean was a little put off by Christa. He felt like she was… always watching. His thoughts kept going back to Father Nick. _Maybe_, Jean thought jokingly, _she's God_. And then he realized, the more he adjusted to her presence, that it wasn't much of a joking thought anymore. Christa was a good-hearted, bright-eyed girl. But she had this intense ambience that clung to her, and it was choking. "In Greek mythology there are three Fates, you know. They cut your string of life."

"Like _Hercules_?" Jean asked, glancing at the clock. If they were actually going to school today, they probably should get going.

"Heracles, in Greek mythology," Christa said, rocking idly back and forth. "I… don't think he ever encountered the Fates, but I could be wrong."

"No," Jean said, staring blankly at the girl. "I meant, the movie. You know. Disney?"

Christa stared at him blankly. As did Reiner and Bertholdt. Jean felt suddenly very silly, knowing Disney movies and comic books, when these people— these heroes, were utterly clueless to his words.

"Sorry, dude," Reiner said. "We were raised in a lab."

"Christa," Bertholdt said quietly. "I… I don't think I remember you. From the institute, I mean."

Christa hugged her knees. Her hair slipped from her shoulders as she shrugged. "I… was…" She looked very distant suddenly. "I… I remember… waking up…" Her eyes grew wide. "Nothing before that, though. I mean, I just remember waking up suddenly, and everything was exploding. I can't remember the institute at all."

"You're not missing much," Reiner said. His voice was gentle though, as though he was trying to make her feel better about something no one could control.

"You remember your father though," Jean said. Christa went rigid, and nodded slowly.

"My memories _before_ the institute are fine," Christa said. "I just feel like… like I was put to sleep for a few years, and I woke up in a strange place."

"What did your father do?" Jean couldn't help his curiosity. "You seem to hate him a lot."

Christa closed her eyes. "He put me to sleep," she murmured. Jean stared at her in shock, wondering if he'd heard her right. Reiner and Bertholdt were watching her with equally stunned, confused stares.

"Guys!" Marco cried. He'd looked up from his phone, and quickly turned on the television. They all stared at Marco expectantly, but Jean was still a little hung up on Christa's comment. The TV flickered on, and Jean watched Marco flick through the channels until the news appeared on screen. And what they saw made Jean almost fall over. And laugh. Out of shock, and hysterics. What the fuck, though?

"Is that a fucking robot?" Jean asked, his voice going very high with distress.

"There's another one!" Reiner shouted, jumping to his feet and pointing at the screen. And indeed, there was. The robots were not like anything Jean had ever seen— they were almost animalistic in design, but they moved with a stunning, dangerous precision in their steps. The news camera zoomed in on the creature's gleaming face, and its glassy eyes moved to meet it. It opened its mouth— its giant, gaping maw— and _fire_ poured from glistening metal teeth. "What the fuck…?"

"What…" Christa had jumped to her feet as well. "What do we do?"

"I…" Jean didn't know. He saw the beasts in proportion to the Chicago skyscrapers. They were huge. "Shit, I don't know…"

"We have to do _something_!" Christa cried, whirling to face Jean. Her face was suddenly not so serene and angelic, but more furious in an alarming sort of way. "Aren't we heroes?"

"We're not strong enough to fight those things," Jean said, his eyes flickering to the TV screen. The fire robot had taken out a camera, and now the news station had to film from a sky view. "At least, I'm not. You're not. Marco's not. Bertholdt's powers won't work on robots. And Reiner—"

"Can take 'em," Reiner said. He spun away from them, and thrust his fist into the air. "Let's thrash 'em up!"

"Sit the fuck down," Jean snapped. "You're not thrashing anything by yourself."

"Then put on your big boy pants," Reiner said, half twisting to face them all, "and help me fight some giant robots."

"Giant robots," Jean said. "Giant fucking robots. You expect four powerless teenagers to take down two—"

"There's three now!" Marco cried.

"_THREE_," Jean shouted, his voice echoing in the vacancy of the kitchen, "GIANT FUCKING ROBOTS!"

"Oh, whoa," Reiner said softly. "Dude, lower your voice. I can take them, I'm impervious."

"That means jack shit, Reiner," Jean said. "You're not immortal. Have you ever fought giant fucking robots before?"

"Nah," Reiner said. "But they can't hurt me. And I'm strong enough to tear them up. Don't worry."

"No, you don't seem to get it," Jean said, breathless and furious. "You cannot possibly beat three robots on your own. Unless you're hiding, like, a Jaeger under your belt."

Reiner stared at Jean blankly. "Uh…" He tilted his head. "Eren…?"

"Is that a person?" Jean stared vacantly back at Reiner. "I'm going to assume that's a person. No, I'm talking about Pacific Rim, Reiner, didn't you go to the movies at all this summer?"

"I'm dirt poor, bucko."

"Oh, oh!" Christa's arm shot into the air suddenly. "I saw it! It was so pretty."

"Agreed," Marco said, his eyes on the television. Bertholdt just sat quietly.

"See, even these losers saw it," Jean said. "The point is, unless you somehow have a giant fuckin' robot hidden somewhere— maybe that scrapheap of a car is a Transformer, who knows— _don't fight giant fucking robots_!"

"Are we just going to call them giant fucking robots?" Reiner asked. "Because, I mean, I'm down with it, but can we just shorten it to GFR?"

"You don't take anything seriously, do you?" Jean asked flatly. He felt like he was wasting his breath, screaming at Reiner. The boy was stubborn shit, and there was nothing Jean could really do but slow him down.

"Untrue," Reiner said, smiling wanly. "I'm serious about this. If you don't want to come, that's fine. You're right, Jean, it'll just get everyone hurt." He threw his arms out, and grinned broadly. "I can't get hurt, though. I'm built too solid."

"You don't know that for sure," Jean tried, and failed. Reiner merely shrugged, and began to walk toward the door. "At least wear a mask or something, jeez!"

"Why?" Reiner called back. "It's not like I exist, or anything."

_What the fuck does that mean?_ Jean thought, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. Jean yelped when Bertholdt moved past him, following Reiner to the door.

"Bert," Jean said. Bertholdt looked back at him, and he smiled weakly. "No way. You'll… you'll get killed. For sure."

"Someone's got to do something…" Bertholdt whispered, looking distant and glassy eyed. Reiner had told Jean that his Schizophrenia was mild, and so under control that it was hard to tell he had it. But there were signs. Reiner had also said that Bertholdt's case was mostly auditory. He heard the whispering voices of all the people he'd skinned— a pretty gruesome term both Reiner and Bertholdt used for possession— and it only ever really got bad after he skinned a new person. Which, Bertholdt had on Saturday. _I wonder what he hears_, Jean thought.

"Can you skin something that isn't alive?" Jean asked, grabbing Bertholdt by the wrist before he could walk away. He looked at Jean guiltily.

"I don't know," he said. "Maybe…"

"Maybe?" Jean shook his head furiously. "No. This isn't a thug, or a thief, Bert, this an actual monster, and someone—" _Someone created it. A human being decided to play super villain._ _This is a direct result of our actions, mine and Marco's and Mikasa's and Levi's and Bertholdt and Reiner and even Christa. We fed fuel to a monster, and now it's spitting fire all over my goddamn city_.

"Someone…?" Bertholdt stared at him with wide eyes.

"N-nothing," Jean said, shaking his head. "Never mind. Just… fuck, man…"

"Wait," Christa said. Jean looked at her. _Absolutely not_, he thought. "Reiner! Wait!" At the door, Reiner had paused. He'd been waiting for Bertholdt anyway. "I'm coming too, okay? Just let me change."

"Christa," Jean said. He was done with pleading. Now he was just trying to convince someone that this was a bad idea. "You are four-foot-nine-inches and ninety-some pounds of smiles and bones. You don't have a power that can help you. What the fuck are you planning to do?"

"Fight!" Christa cried. Jean was alarmed when she reached forward and grabbed both his hands. "And you should too! Aren't you a hero?"

"I'm a high school student," Jean said quietly. "I'm not a hero, I'm a kid. And so are you. Jesus…" He tore his hands away from her in order to rub his forehead in contemplation. "We're not in any shape to be fighting monsters. We're not powerful enough to even entertain the thought."

"Then who _is_?" It was Marco who spoke. Jean looked at the freckled boy, sickened suddenly by the idea that Marco was willing to join the crusade. He was standing by the television, his warm brown eyes tired and dull, aged suddenly as though shriveled in the sun like grapes to raisins. He stood and stared. At Jean. Only at Jean. There was a serious, calculating look about him that made it clear that he had thought about this extensively— Marco knew the answer. He wanted to know if Jean knew. And that made the pressure of the situation all the more terrifying.

"What do you mean?" Jean asked.

"If we're not powerful enough," Marco said, his voice strong and steady, "then what about the people weaker than us? There's no one protecting us, Jean, so who's protecting _them_? We _have_ to be strong enough."

"I don't understand what you're talking about, to be honest," Jean sighed. Christa had disappeared from the kitchen, likely to change, and Bertholdt had moved to Reiner's side at the front door. "Are we in any danger here?"

"Jean," Marco said gently. "Giant fucking robots."

"GFR!" Reiner called from the door.

"Shut the fuck up!" Jean called back. He turned back to face Marco, who had taken a few strides to meet Jean, his sun-dried eyes suddenly glowing with the intensity of determination. Jean almost took a step back from the shock of it. He'd never seen Marco look like this before, so like— like a stranger who had taken over his friend, his best friend who cared for everyone and was so… determined…

Oh.

It occurred to Jean that perhaps he didn't know Marco at all. Perhaps he'd been pretending for years and years that he knew Marco, because maybe he knew some part of him, some tiny part that doted on Jean and made Jean feel like he was worth something whenever he felt like he was nothing, but it wasn't who Marco was. Not truly. Jean could pretend that Marco was the perfect friend, the perfect follower, the ideal person that Jean needed around him. But Marco was just as human as Jean was. Marco was breathing, and Marco was having thoughts, and making his own decisions, and planning to follow through with his life with or without Jean in the equation. And it _hurt_, not because it was happening now, per se, but because it was inevitable. This was life. Marco knew it. Jean knew it. And it was possible that fate did exist, if only to tear friends apart.

_Why are there three Fates in Greek mythology?_ Jean wondered, searching Marco's face desperately. He could see every freckle, every pore, and it was almost… too clear, as though Jean had been living half his life staring at Marco through a faulty lens. _It only takes one person to cut one string. So why three? Are there other strings? Life string, mind string, heart string. You lose your heart first. And once that's cut, there's no helping you. It's the end. You lose everyone you love fast, and you're stuck with the ashes of all the fuckin' failed relationships you've had. Then you lose your mind. You're friendless. Hopeless. Heartless. You already wish you were dead. And you cave. That's when your life gets cut. And it's a mercy_.

Marco took Jean's hands, and stared at him worriedly as though he could hear exactly what he was thinking. "You're the one who wanted to be a hero, Jean," Marco whispered. "So why don't you just prove that you are?"

_I'm scared_, Jean wished he could say. _I don't want to die_. It had never stopped him before, but now was so different. Now it felt real, not just some senseless dream used to escape from the real world. Fighting crime at night, in the dark, it was a secret. No one knew there were vigilantes going around, at least no one with the power to stop it. But to go out and fight giant robots— GFR, as Reiner would prefer— with little chance of success? Jean couldn't even break into his own computer when he forgot his password. Marco had to do it. Hell, Marco had known his password. There was no chance for him to be of help in this situation.

"I'm not a hero, Marco," Jean said, his voice unsteady.

"Yeah, you are," Marco said firmly. He wasn't smiling. His gaze had grown dim and tired again. "But I need you to stop pretending your not… just because you're weak. That doesn't make much of a difference, in my opinion. Because that's what makes you different." He let go of Jean's hands, and Jean had almost forgot he'd been holding them. "Maybe that's the kind of hero people need. The normal kind. A human. That's what you are. So…" Marco smiled suddenly, and shoved Jean gently. "Just be human. But don't die. Kay?"

"Um…" Jean didn't know what to say. Except, perhaps, remind Marco that they had a Spanish test in half an hour. "Okay… I don't really…"

"Trust me," Marco said.

"I do," Jean sighed. "You know I do, come on."

"Then let's kick some robot ass." Marco offered Jean his hand, and Jean couldn't help but accept it.

* * *

_It's really weird going back to these chapters, because a lot happens and yet...? Not much happens at all. I'm really surprised how this keeps turning out because I just finished another Jean chapter, and the last chapter I wrote was a Levi chapter. That was a total accident! _

_Christa's powers aren't easy to explain. At the moment. Eventually they'll be seen in action, but until then, let's just say she's a healer. _

_Aside from that, I have no comments on this chapter? Except that I really didn't want to do giant robots. But I needed something really extreme to pull everyone together. Extreme and ridiculous. I wanted it to be ridiculous and silly, because it's still a superhero au. And what would superheroes be without giant robots?_


	9. method of working

_**modus operandi**_

**Manhattan, New York**

_a.d. Kalendas Octobres, 2766 A.U.C._

Eren had been pretty much prepared to face school with his usual speak-a-word-and-die attitude. That morning, as he'd been trying to find an oxford shirt that was pink (because it was now October, and they got to where pastel pink shirts with their uniforms now, how fucking exciting), Mikasa had appeared in his doorway. He glanced at her, completely dressed, and he threw the shirt in his hands at her face. It landing on over her head, white and rippling across her nose and mouth. She tugged it off, and stared at him. Her phone was clutched in her fist.

"What do you want?" Eren asked, digging through his drawers, his anger spiking to the point where he almost tore the drawer out and tossed its contents onto the floor. But he'd rather not get a beatdown from Levi.

"I…" Mikasa sounded very distant. She looked almost uncomfortable, her eyes darting very fast from him to the hallway. He felt guilty for that. "What are youdoing?"

"Um," Eren said, tearing a pale coral button down shirt from his drawer. He cried out triumphantly. "Finding a fuckin' shirt! Well, that's it, god bless America, I can convert, god is real—" He glanced at Mikasa, who was still standing frozen in the doorway, staring at him with large eyes. _She probably thinks I went crazy in five years_, Eren thought. _Though, I probably did, so can't blame her for that_. "Are you okay? Do you wanna… like, talk… or…?"

"Um," Mikasa said, blinking rapidly. She pulled her red woolen scarf— his own from years and years ago— up over her lips a she shook her head profusely. "No. No talk— uh, ing." Her voice was muffled by the wool, and he couldn't help but smile. "I just got a text from my friend Marco."

"Oh, right." Eren pulled on the shirt, frowning at its tightness around his shoulders. Maybe they'd gotten broader? He hadn't even noticed, holy fuck. Weird. "From Chicago. Wasn't there another one?"

"Jean," Mikasa said, pulling her scarf down a little when Eren began to button up the shirt. "Yes. Anyway, Chicago's being attacked by giant robots."

Eren paused mid-button. He looked up at her. "Repeat that last bit," he said. "Slowly. Like, go for a Samuel L. Jackson impression."

Mikasa stared at him, her eyes darting fast from and to his face in mild confusion. "I'd like to talk to you about the Avenger's initiative," Mikasa said instead in a dead monotone. Eren stared back at her for a moment, and then burst into laughter.

"Close," Eren said. "But Sam Jackson's voice ain't that high."

"Eren," Mikasa said very slowly. "Chicago. Giant robots. Is any of this digesting…?"

"Do you want me to go tell Hange?" Eren's stomach fluttered giddily at the thought of missing school to fight giant robots. _I'd have to go full Rogue though_, Eren thought. Somehow he didn't mind.

Mikasa shook her head. "They're investigating the institute today," Mikasa said quietly. She averted her gaze, and Eren stared at her. _Tell me what's wrong_, Eren said through their mindlink. Armin, who obviously heard, said nothing in response. _Did this Marco guy hurt you? I can_—

"You're not beating up anyone who's not a giant robot," Mikasa informed him. "And no. He didn't. I'm just… worried, that's all. I don't know what they're going to find."

Eren knew that feeling. Because his father was still out there somewhere. And that terrified and excited him. There was something in the enigmatic disappearance of Eren's father that troubled Eren, in the most delightful and daunting way. Because Eren knew that his father was responsible for… for a lot of things that Eren didn't understand. And he hoped that maybe meeting him again would clear up the mysteries. Maybe there was a _reason_ they'd all been given these powers.

"Yeah," Eren said quietly. "I get it… so, wait." He scratched the back of his neck, grimacing at the sensitive skin— too fleshy and too soft and too easily torn— and studying Mikasa's face. Mikasa didn't wear make up, which didn't surprise Eren, but he noticed that she'd clipped her hair back from her eyes with a pair of twin red bobbypins. "What exactly do you wanna do, then?"

Mikasa shot a glance out into the hall, and then she stepped into Eren's room, shutting the door behind her. She stood for a moment, her body hunched awkwardly, as though she didn't know exactly how to stand or relax inside Eren's bedroom. Eren wondered what was making her so nervous— the robots, the institute, or the fact that she was alone in his bedroom. _But that's dumb, because she knows me, and she's always alone with Levi, and she can beat me up easy, so she shouldn't be scared_, Eren thought to himself.

"How many planes does Hange have?" Mikasa asked urgently.

"Three," Eren answered immediately. He knew this because they'd taken him to JFK— where she kept them, interestingly enough— and pointed them out to him. "They've got the jet, and then two smaller planes." He was grinning now, and he whirled around, kicking closed his drawer and dragging his duffle bag containing his Rogue costume out from under his bed. "The fastest one is one that Hange designed themself— it's all flashy and bright colored, but it's pretty damn efficient in a pinch."

"Can you fly it?" Mikasa asked, hugging her arms as she looked around Eren's room. He had a few trophies from baseball, and soccer, and a medal for excellence in Biology from like, eighth grade, and Hange had been so pleased with it they'd framed it on his wall. He wasn't sure how he'd gotten the award, because he wasn't really good at science anymore.

"Um," Eren said with a sharp laugh, "no? I mean, Hange never let me learn how because of, y'know, the narcolepsy thing."

Mikasa frowned. Eren could sense that that irritated her, and it sort of irritated Eren too, but it wasn't something he could fight. It would be _dangerous_ to have him in a cockpit. Like, not in the fun thrill-seeking way, either. In the way that would undoubtedly kill all his friends. So, he was a little thankful that he couldn't actually pilot anything.

_Armin_, Mikasa called into the void that held the tethers of their linked minds.

Armin answered with vague confusion. _Yeah?_

_Can you fly a plane? _Mikasa asked, and Eren raised his eyebrows. He could practically feel Armin's shock from wherever he actually was in the apartment, and it shuddered through the mindlink like the recoil of a gun.

_What?_ Armin's voice was sharp and startled. _Mikasa, I can't even ride a bike_.

Mikasa exhaled sharply, her nostrils flaring as she glared up at the ceiling. She stood rigidly for a moment, and Eren began to transfer his Rogue gear from his duffle bag to his backpack. _Ask Annie_, Mikasa said begrudgingly.

Eren knelt beside his backpack, and he looked up suddenly. "Hey, Mikasa," Eren said. "Do you know how to ride a bike?"

"No."

Eren stared ahead of him for a moment. Their lives were fucking sad. "Me neither," he admitted. He tucked his shirt into his belt, and snatched his tie from his bed. "Why would Annie know how to fly a plane, anyhow?"

"I don't know," Mikasa sighed. "We don't know much about her. Maybe she can."

There was a soft knock at the door. Mikasa opened it slowly, and Armin poked his head in. "Uh," he said. "Hey. So, why do we need a pilot, exactly?"

"We have to get to Chicago," Eren said, tying up his tie. "Though, I don't know how we're gonna even get past Levi, honestly."

Armin stepped into the room, completely dressed in his uniform, gloves and sweater on, and he stared at them curiously from behind his wire-framed glasses. Last week, Armin had failed his eye test. It had been the most satisfying moment of Eren's life thus far to find that he had passed a test that Armin had failed. Armin had merely stared at Eren glumly as he handed the pale yellow slip to Erwin that indicated Armin's need for ocular correction.

Annie entered the room after Armin. She had her own clothes now, and modified the school uniform to suit her comfort. Her skirt was much shorter than Mikasa's (which was, admittedly, far longer than many of the other girls wore), but she wore a pair of visible knee length leggings. She'd gotten in trouble for it her first day, but after she had managed to get a doctor's excuse saying she had a skin condition, she was allowed to wear them. She wore her scuffed pair of sneakers with her white knee-highs, and her heavy white sweatshirt over her school sweater.

"I can take us," she said, her hands stuck in the pocket of her sweatshirt. She glanced at Armin, who was watching her curiously. She shrugged. "I stole a plane once."

"That's fuckin' metal," Eren said, impressed by the tiny blonde. She blinked at him, but said nothing in response.

"Can I ask… why?" Armin said, studying Annie intently.

"It's safer than hitch-hiking," she said. "Once you figure out the controls, at least."

"So you did your homework, then," Armin said. "Before you stole it?"

"Well I didn't crash it," Annie said, sounding bristled. "I left it where I landed. I didn't plan on keeping it, and I'm sure it was returned to the owner."

"Okay, cool," Eren said, nodding at Annie. "So you can take us to Chicago. Who's prepared to beat up some robots?"

They all stared at him blankly. Mikasa raised her hand, and Eren grinned, high fiving her happily. Armin and Annie merely looked uncomfortable. _It's like they don't even want to be heroes_, Eren thought. But Armin and Annie just stared, four pairs of dull blue eyes watching Eren uncertainly, and Eren felt a memory surface from the depths of the crypts that held his past, of these two small friends of his standing across from him with the same dead, bemused look in their eyes. Only they were even smaller then, even more uncertain, and even more distant and dull and dead to the world.

"Why would anyone attack Chicago with robots?" Armin asked suddenly.

Eren glanced at him. "Does that… matter?"

"Of course it does," Armin said. He adjusted his glasses, and shook his head. "Nobody just makes giant robots to attack a major city for no reason. Aren't you the one who knows stuff about comics? What would be a villain's motive in this kind of situation?"

Eren didn't know. There were different types of motivations— chaos, money, power, vengeance… But this seemed random. Robots. Giants. Chicago. Eren had no idea. And he admitted it. Armin slumped, and he frowned, and Eren could tell this was going to bother him.

"We need to get past Levi," Mikasa said, glaring at the door disdainfully. "Any ideas?"

"Oh, that's simple," Armin said. "Levi can drop us off at school— assuming we aren't telling anyone that we're doing this, which I would normally advise against, but considering the circumstances—"

"Agreed," Eren said. He frowned, and looked down at his uniform glumly. "Do we have time, though…?"

"I think either way we're pretty pressed," Armin said. "It won't matter at this point, as long as we get there."

Eren didn't actually believe that, and he didn't think Armin did either, but there was nothing they could really do. Mikasa glanced at her phone, and Annie looked around Eren's room with vague curiosity flickering in her eyes, and Armin seemed to be thinking, his eyes distant. Something occurred to Eren at that moment, and he looked pointedly at Annie.

"If you're gonna fight with us," Eren said firmly, frowning down at Annie as she turned to face him, "then you need to join the mindlink."

She stared at him with her tired, vacant eyes, and he felt like kicking himself.

Armin flinched as though someone had dug their heel into his foot. "But I can't!" Armin gasped, his eyes flickering to Annie's face. She kept staring at Eren, and her vacant gaze narrowed into a chilly fury. "She has a wall up, remember?"

"Eren's right," Mikasa said, raising her chin high at Armin. "Annie can't cooperate with us if we're not communicating with her. If we're relying on the link, she needs to be part of it." Eren could tell this did not make Mikasa happy, but it was truly their best option.

"I know," Armin said softly. "But I can't just break the wall."

"Take it down, Annie," Eren said. The tiny girl averted her gaze, as though his words were making her uncomfortable. "Please, we need to be able to talk to you."

"Then talk," Annie said, her eyes flashing to Eren's face. "Your larynx hasn't been damaged. You don't need to rely on mental communication."

"It's more convenient," Mikasa said. "And tactically a better option."

Annie stiffened. Tactically. That was the word that had caught her attention. Because it was certainly correct— out in the field, in the middle of a battle, a telepathic link could be the only thing that could save them. Annie needed to be in on that, or else she'd be dead weight.

She pressed her lips together very thinly, and then turned to face Armin. She watched his face, her eyes flickering very fast, and she exhaled sharply. She shook her head, as though she could not believe that they had roped her into this, and then she grabbed Armin's wrist. In response, Armin nearly fell backwards in surprise, looking confused and alarmed and a little frightened as she pulled at his navy blue glove with her own pale blue fingers. He tore his hand from her, and for a moment Eren thought he was about to shove her, his eyes growing wide with shock and anger.

"What are you doing?" he gasped, taking a cautious step back as she reached for his hand again.

"You want in my head," Annie said, catching Armin's gloved fingers with her own, "don't you?"

"Not particularly," Armin admitted, glancing at Eren sharply. "I mean, yes, tactically it's a good decision for all of us to be connected, and yes, it's more convenient that way, but I'm personally against prying into your—"

"Then don't pry," Annie said, tugging the rayon fabric from his bony hand. The glove slid away from Armin's milk-white knuckles, and Eren could tell that Annie wasn't nearly as confident with this idea as she was trying to play. She hesitated as she looked at Armin's bare hand in her gloved one, as though she was unable to bare her own skin.

"You can't actually want to touch me," Armin said softly, disbelief causing his voice to crack miserably.

"I don't," Annie replied.

Armin smiled then, and it was a bitter one. "Then why exactly are you trying?" he asked, watching as Annie finally pulled at the tips of her right glove. "It's not a pleasant experience— Eren and Mikasa are the exception. It…" He eyed her bare hand, a pale wrist connected to a sallow hand connected to onyx fingers that danced with a brilliant gleam in the rays of morning sunlight filtering through Eren's window. "It hurts."

"I know," Annie said. She held up her blackened fingertips, and Eren could see the cracks of her skin, her fingerprints carved into her frozen, ice encrusted flesh as though with a thin, precise blade. "I get it." _I can't control my power either_, Eren could almost hear her say. It was written in the way her eyes dropped, and her fingers drooped, and her lips drew downwards into an apprehensive frown.

_I hate you two_, Armin informed them. _A lot. What if it doesn't work?_

_Then we tried?_ Eren tilted his head. _Sorry, dude_.

_I'm going to sever the connection_, Armin told them, turning to face Annie. She'd frozen up upon realizing that she really had to touch Armin, it seemed, and her hand was continuing to droop in midair as he cautiously raised his own. _You guys don't need to feel this._

And just like that, Mikasa and Eren were separated from Armin, and from each other. That feeling by itself was a little crippling, the sensation of having an anvil dropped onto a limb— the limb is still there, probably, but there was a crushing sensation and a little bit of empty pain that drummed itself into existence very slowly. Eren could almost feel the link loosen in the void, spreading just far enough apart for Eren to not be able to reach Mikasa's mind, and not be able to feel Armin's anxiety.

He hated it. It was like being forced away from them all over again.

"Ready?" Armin asked Annie carefully, offering out his hand in the kind of way that suggested he was trying very hard not to take several steps back. Eren could see his fingers trembling.

"Yeah…" Annie lifted her own hand— half-frozen, crystallized fingers and a white fleshy palm. She moved it very slowly, and Eren watched with great curiosity as the tips of her blackened fingers brushed Armin's pallid ones.

Both blonds jerked visibly in shock, their bodies buckling as Annie choked on a gasp, and Armin gave a sharp, terrible shout of pain. Eren couldn't understand why. Why it was so painful for Armin to touch anyone— not just Annie, but anyone. Why it had never bothered him when he'd been younger, but now Armin was just hypersensitive to everyone except Eren and Mikasa and Erwin. Why were Armin's powers such a strain, when even Eren's powers could be put under control through medication and routine checks.

Their hands flew apart— they had barely been touching in the first place— and both Annie and Armin took instinctual steps away from each other. Armin was cradling his hand to his chest, while Annie was staring at her own with a dazed, vague horror. Eren saw that she was hunched, rigid in a way that Annie normally was not, as though the experience had left her emotionally rattled.

"Sorry," Annie mumbled. She turned away from Armin before handing him back his glove.

"I-it's fine," Armin stammered. He'd closed his eyes, and Eren could tell he was in pain very suddenly by the sound of his voice. Eren marched up to him, and grabbed him by his forearm, pulling his hand away from his chest. "I'm fine, Eren."

The tips of his fingers were white. Not the milky, fleshy white that they were supposed to be, no. Armin's fingers were frosted over in a layer of ice, crystals lacing the grooves of his flesh, miniature snowflakes gathering in the crease of his knuckles. It suddenly made sense to Eren why Annie wore gloves as often as she did. He'd suspected right— that Annie had very little control over her power. It manifested through her flesh, though the pores of her skin and through her very blood. Ice was inside her, and it wanted out so badly that it was freezing her entire body, and anyone else's that got too close.

The frost that clung to Armin's skin was already melting, but the fact remained that Annie had unintentionally done it just by brushing her fingers to his. An innocent act. And Armin slipped his glove back on, and he bent his fingers back and forth carefully.

Eren felt the familiar brush of Armin's mind as he reassembled the connection like a weaver at a loom. He felt Mikasa's presence return, and suddenly there was another string stretching between Eren's mind and another. Annie felt like something distant that he could see, but not touch or feel. She was simply there, like a cloud, or a mountain in the distance.

_Okay_, Armin said. _Are we all online, then?_

_Yep_, Eren said. He returned to his backpack, and grabbed his sweater vest.

_Yeah_, said Mikasa. She was watching Annie with a frown.

_I guess_, Annie said. Even her voice was distant, like an old song tuning in and out rapidly on a phonograph, scratching the walls of Eren's mind as it struck the chords that connected the four of them mentally.

_Okay_… Armin's eyes looked tired behind the lenses of his glasses, and he sighed. _Let's get started_.

It wasn't hard to trick Levi. Not when they were all linked mentally, and pretty much already prepared for any inquisitions about their behavior. Levi was thankfully uninterested in their silence, and kicked them out just like he did every morning. They went without a word, and waited until he was gone to leave school property. They walked down the street, bags over their shoulders, uniforms still on, and they mentally discussed how they'd go about taking down a giant robot.

They got to JFK pretty quickly, all things considering. Security did not stop them, because they could not see them, and Eren found Hange's planes where they had been the last time Hange had took him there. The jet was already gone. They were in the clear.

Armin looked a little sick as they sat in the plane, preparing for take off. Eren stared at him, and he wondered if he was afraid of planes, or something. Eren grimaced as Armin looked at him with a certain degree of shock glimmering in his large blue eyes behind the thin frames of his glasses. He was sitting in his seat, his feet up as he embraced his knees. He looked like a child.

_I'm fine, Eren_, Armin said.

_You look sorta pukey_, Eren said, trying to sound gentle in their heads. Instead he sounded brutally sharp and accusing.

_I have a headache_, Armin admitted. _But that's not really a big deal. My powers give me headaches all the time_.

_I have motrin_, Mikasa said, pulling her gray backpack into her lap. She retrieved a pale white box, a first-aid kit, and pried it open. She fished a tiny bottle from it, and offered it out to Armin who took it gratefully. _I don't have any water, though_—

Armin had already popped off the cap and shaken three bright orange capsules into his palm, throwing them back into his mouth. His adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly, clicking the cap back into place. Mikasa studied him with a furrowed brow, while Eren simply sat and frowned.

"Do you take drugs a lot?" Eren asked. "'Cause I can't even swallow one pill without a glass of milk."

"I told you," Armin said, sounding self-conscious as he turned his attention out the window. "I get headaches a lot."

Eren shrugged. He saw Annie watching them from the corner of her eye, her hands at the controls, and he saw that she looked almost… nervous. _You think you can handle this, Annie?_ Eren asked.

_Just hold on_, Annie responded, turning her face away from them. That didn't reassure Eren any. In fact, it made him a little worried. But the take off went smoothly, and they were in the air before they knew it. Eren's concern faded very fast, and he began wondering aloud what Annie's moniker could be.

"Do I need one?" Annie's knuckles were white as she stared ahead of her, her tired eyes searching the clouds.

"Of course you do," Eren said. "Don't you wanna be a hero?"

"I don't see why I need to change my name." Annie's voice was dull and bored, and she shrugged meagerly.

"You're not _changing _it," Eren sighed. "You're _protecting_ it."

"That's stupid."

_You're stupid_, Eren bit back. The scathing look Annie threw back at him suggested that she heard him.

"Eren's right," Armin said. "It's better not to use our names. We could get into a lot of trouble if anyone found out who we really are."

Annie decided not to respond. It was like this constantly nowadays, getting Annie to talk only for her to clamp up just when the conversation was going somewhere. It was disheartening, because Eren wanted to know Annie better, but she just didn't seem to _want_ to be known. Eren wasn't one to usually give a fuck when a person didn't want to talk— that was their business. But Annie was reclosed enough to make anyone antsy.

"How about Lionheart?" Eren offered.

Annie's shoulders squared, her entire body going rigid as though he'd pinched her waist to make her jump. She twisted to look at him, and he could see that she was surprised, albeit mildly. "What?" she said.

"Lionheart," Eren repeated with a shrug. "Like, your last name. Leonhardt. That's what it means, right?"

She was quiet. The corner of her lips twitched. "I… guess…" she said slowly.

"Then we'll just use that, if that's okay," Eren said. "I mean, unless you don't like it. Then we can change it. Did you want somethin' ice-themed, 'cause like—"

"Lionheart is fine," Annie cut in, turning back to face her clouds and her silence. Eren frowned.

Eren ended up sharing his earbuds with Armin for a little while until he fell asleep. When he woke up, the music was still pumping through his ears, and he noticed that Mikasa had half-changed into her Nio outfit. She had the golden band around her shoulders, and by extension the flimsy sheer fabric that split at her abdomen in order to hook at the scabbard of her sword resting at the small of her back. She was still wearing her uniform skirt, and her button down, but Eren figured they would all have to make adjustments for today. Her Nio mask was resting in her lap.

Armin was wearing his white hood, and his gloves from his Cicero outfit, which danced with scrawled words in a surreal twitching of letters. Eren couldn't help but notice the faint brown stains that flecked the hem of his hood, and the insides of his palms. The stains were barely noticeable, but to someone looking for them, they were horrifying.

"It's shown up on the news," Mikasa informed him as he stripped off his sweater vest. "Just half an hour ago. Before that, there wasn't any confirmation of giant robots."

"Are we almost there?" Eren asked, slapped his mask over his eyes. It had a heavy adhesive that allowed it to stick to his eyes, but it was also made of some weird polymer that conformed to his bone structure. Hange, Eren had decided, was fucking magic.

_I'm trying to find a place to land close to the city,_ Annie said. Eren peeked out the window, and saw the Chicago skyline glimmering behind a layer of smog and smoke.

"Drop me," Eren said.

He felt Mikasa and Armin's eyes fall upon him with the shock and confusion that one radiated from their fierce gazes. He could almost feel the word flutter off the edges of their link, fringing at the ribbons of their connection. _Suicide_. But it wasn't. Eren could survive it.

"Drop you," Annie repeated aloud. "I don't know if I'd be able to see anything if I got any closer."

"Then drop me here," Eren said, unbuckling his seatbelt. "I can get a running start."

"What does that mean?" Armin squeaked, staring up at Eren. "Are you… going to go completely Rogue?"

"Giant robots," Eren said. "Giant monster. I'll tear 'em apart."

"That's too dangerous," Mikasa said, lurching forward as though to grab him. Her seatbelt held her back, and he fumbled around the cabin for a moment. "Eren, are you listening? You can't just become fifteen meters tall like that, there are _people_ down there—"

"It'll be fine," Eren said.

"I'm not sure that's sound judgment, Eren," Armin squeaked. "Doesn't going Rogue drain your energy? You could pass out— you could pass out while _inside_ Rogue!"

"I know, I know!" Eren grunted as Annie jerked the plane to the right, and his back went slamming against the wall of the plane. "I know. I'll take responsibility if I hurt anyone, and if I pass out—" Eren looked pointedly at Mikasa. "Cut me out."

"Cut you…?" Mikasa's face was utterly emotionless, but he could tell she was horrified.

"Cut down the nape of my neck," Eren said, feeling dazed as he spoke. "Down, not across. If you cut across, you'll kill me."

"Eren…"

_Eren_, Armin said gently. _You're right. Rogue is something we're going to need. But we need to be careful_—

"People could be dying!" Eren cried. "There's a city that's being wrecked to shit, and you wanna talk danger? We can't afford it, Armin, we don't have time! If I'm gonna go, I'm going _now._"

_I'm dropping you_, Annie said. _I've gotten close enough to a street to land, but I'll drop you first. Get ready_.

"Good," Eren said, edging toward the emergency exit. Armin and Mikasa were both leaning forward, their seatbelts restricting them as they twisted to face Eren. They both looked incredibly pained, as though they could not understand why he was doing this. He tried to smile at them, and he said, _C'mon guys, you get to see Rogue for the first time, how awesome is that?_

But they just stared at him.

They didn't care.

They were scared, and Eren was fueling their fear with his recklessness. And the truth was, he didn't care either. He raised his left hand to his lips.

_This is a bad idea_, Armin said.

Eren yanked on the latch, and his stomach lurched almost painfully as he was sucked from the airplane as though he was a leaf snatched up by the wind. He could hear nothing but the ferocity of the air as it tossed him around senselessly, viciously, angrily tearing at him as his limbs flailed in midair, his hair fluttering across his eyes and around his ears and whooshing in the whistling air. For a moment, Eren forgot where he was. For a gut-wrenching, paralyzing moment, he forgot who he was. Freefalling was the type of thrill that attacked every muscle, every tendon, ever cell and atom and molecule of your being. There was shock, and it allowed the body to be utterly still as nature attacked it like feral dogs diving at a fresh slab of meat. Eren could not recall what he was doing in that moment, because he was so taken aback by the brutality of gravity, the beauty of falling.

He recovered as he flipped himself unsteadily onto his stomach. The ground was spinning upwards to meet him, zooming in and threatening to collide with him. Could Eren come back from being a blood smear on the side of a street? Could he regenerate his bones, his nerves and veins and muscle and flesh? Could he come back from complete annihilation?

It didn't matter. He forced his fist between his teeth, and tore at his skin with a ferocity that could rival the snarling wind around him. He felt the warmth of blood pool against his tongue, sickly sweet and acrid and burning him as though it was aflame, and suddenly it _was_, and so was _he_. His body was engulfed in fire, and he felt it spike through him with the fleeting intensity of lightning— he could almost taste the electricity as it bound him to threads of new flesh and veins, pinning him into a position of crucifixion, and sending him aloft upon a mountain of muscle and bone. Veins and nerves protruded from his pores, and he felt it tear at him until it became him. He became it.

He was unusually tuned into his sense as his massive legs crashed into the asphalt of a tiny street, crunching the road beneath colossal toes. He blinked rapidly, seeing through glimmering eyes that reflected sunlight like satellite dishes, and he straightened his limbs, too big and too cumbersome, and he tilted his head toward the sky. His acute senses were alerting him to something. His gaping nostrils flared as the scent hit his nose. Burning. Burning metal. His pointed ears twitched. There was a grinding sound close by. Grinding, shuddering— an engine failing. Screaming. Voices ricocheting in his brain, which was too tiny for such a massive being.

_Eren, help us!_

His instincts forced his hand as he leapt up, his body stretching forward as he cupped his giant hands, nearly stumbling as a busted toy plane fell into his grasp. Twisted metal wings burned his skin. He whined, his maw opening and exhaling steam in irritation.

He squinted into the little toy plane, and saw a tiny blonde girl pressed into a seat, forehead glistening bright crimson, and Rogue's mind became aware of the damage his transformation had done to that of these tiny, tiny friends. The girl was slumped, her eyes closed, and Rogue's skinless mouth opened and closed, wishing to say something. An apology.

"Eren!"

A tiny blond boy had appeared in a gaping hole at the side of the toy plane. His hair was half-framing his cheeks, lemon-colored and fluttering against the wind. The rest was twisted behind his head, holding the frames of his little doll-sized glasses in place. Rogue moaned softly, and he pulled the toy closer to his face. The boy was now eyelevel, and Rogue wished the boy would smile. But he didn't. He merely stared at Rogue, his expression morose.

"Eren," said the boy. "Your mind isn't making sense. It's all scrambled— and it's burning. It tastes like someone put your thoughts in a metal container and stuck it inside an open flame. Like—" He looked a little terrified, and he reached out toward Rogue, his white gloves carrying heavy words that peeled away and threatened to stick to the heat of Rogue's skin. "Like skin blistering, like the grease of charred meat, and it's not… stopping…"

"Armin!" A girl in a strange white and black mask appeared in the gaping hole, and in one arm she held the bleeding blonde girl. Rogue relaxed, and blinked rapidly. He was doing something. Yes, yes, he was doing something. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Armin said. "A little rattled, but fine. Is Annie—?"

"Knocked out," said the girl. "The blood's already crystallized, though, so I don't think it'll be fore long."

"Okay," Armin said. "Eren, can you take us with you into the city?"

Rogue nodded eagerly, his ragged brown hair falling into his eyes, and he felt like he could smile giddily, but he didn't have lips. Just a skinless mouth. He watched Armin and the girl— _Mikasa_, his mind whispered fiercely, _idiot_— and Annie climb onto his palm. He dropped the plane. It crumpled against the battered street, and Rogue closed his eyes. He was regaining some semblance of organized thought. He knew it.

"I hope Hange doesn't kill you," Armin told him, resting his gloved palm on Rogue's long nose. Rogue turned toward the city and began to walk slowly forward. He was wary of cars, carefully stepping around them as they passed by.

Annie woke up in Rogue's palms. Mikasa had jumped from his hands to his shoulder, overlooking the city like some kind of conqueror, while Armin had decided to sit beside Annie. She sat up, touched the fresh skin of her forehead, and blinked rapidly.

"Welcome to the Rogue Express," Armin said jokingly. Annie didn't smile.

"Why is his skin so hot?" Annie asked, sounding almost disgusted.

"I'm not exactly sure," Armin said, "but I think it has to do with the energy he has to produce to maintain this size."

Annie said nothing in response, so Rogue assumed she just took that answer as true enough. Rogue was having trouble maneuvering between buildings now as he squeezed into the Chicago streets. Luckily everyone evacuated from his path, or else he'd probably squash them.

"Oh, wow," Armin breathed. _Eren, talk to me_.

Eren saw the smoke and the wreckage with a harsh, blinding clarity as metal limbs shattered glass and tore up streets and crushed tiny toy cars. He could see one strange looking beast, animalistic and glinting in the sunlight as it hopped from building to building, fire huffing from its maw. Eren saw this. Eren exhaled sharply, steam billowing from his nostrils.

_I can fight them_, Eren said.

Armin relaxed in Eren's palm, and he smiled. _Good to hear_, he said. _You'll need your hands, so can you put Annie and I down?_

Eren raised his cupped hands a little above his head, and listened to Armin and Annie shout in shock as Eren let them go. They fell into his twisted, scraggly brown hair and Armin shouted in alarm as he slipped right off Eren's head. Eren was about to catch him when a tiny, gloved hand caught Armin by his skinny wrist, and the words on his stained white gloves glowed eerily as he hung awkwardly before Eren's left eye socket.

"Eren, I'm gonna kick you in the eye!" Armin cried, his little face scrunching up in frustration.

Eren's skinless mouth parted, his teeth clanging together as he made a guttural, breathy sound, his chest vibrating as his head bobbed. He was laughing. Armin's boot caught Eren's long, flat nose, and gained enough traction to steady himself. He was pulled onto Eren's head, and he sat for a moment in a nest of gnarled brown hair, breathless and heaving.

_That robo_t, Armin said. _It's… extremely advanced. Look at the way it's moving, it's so precise. It's destructive, yes, but not volatile. It's almost self-aware of what it's doing, like it's_…

_Intelligent_, Annie completed for him.

_I'm not saying it's Artificial Intelligence_, Armin said as Eren continued to approach the mess the robots had made in the central roads of Chicago. _I can't know that for sure, of course, but there's definitely something deliberate about its movements. If someone is controlling it, they're doing it to show off their power_.

_Does it matter?_ Mikasa asked, rolling up the thin, pale sleeves of her uniform shirt. Her intricately carved ivory and ebony mask of a Nio guardian was gleaming in the morning sunlight. She was standing on Eren's shoulder, balanced perfectly in preparation for whatever fight that would ensue. _Either way, it'll end up in a scrapheap. Why the hell should it matter if it's smart or not?_

_Because, Mikasa_, Armin said. Eren could feel his fear as it strummed the fibers of their mindlink. _Big scary monsters, yeah, they're bad and tough. But the real danger isn't the big scary monster. It's what's controlling it that's terrifying— that's where the real danger is. And if the big scary monster ends up being the intelligent one, then we need to be really, really careful where we tread. Because there's too much power in strength, and too much strength in knowledge, and too much knowledge in power— do you see what I'm saying?_

_I think so_, Mikasa said. _But I don't get it. It doesn't look intelligent at all to me._

_It's avoiding casualties_, Armin said. _All this destruction is superficial. It's not attacking civilians, look. It jumped right over that woman there!_

Eren didn't really care if it wasn't hurting people. It needed to fucking die. So Eren started forward, his body coiling with tension as he reached out and snatched the dancing robot from its perch on the side of a skyscraper. It looked at him with glassy black eyes. It opened its mouth, metal claws drawing across the firm muscle of Rogue's arms, and it coughed a ball of fire into Eren's eyes.

He screamed in shock, letting go of the giant robot— which was all bulky limbs, and large teeth, and flames, and eyes, and it was so— so human, and so monstrous, and so animalistic, all at the same time. And it was artificial. Eren had to remind himself of that. It wasn't alive. It couldn't die. It just could be destroyed.

_Eren!_ Mikasa cried, though Eren couldn't tell if it was in their heads or aloud. There was fire in his eyes. He thought he might be crying, but it could just be the ashes of his eyelids. He felt her jump from his shoulder, though he could not see her, for his eyes were all black and red and light and flashing colors that he could not fathom, for he was locked inside a burning mass of flesh and bone and nerves clinging to his skinny frame. He heard Mikasa shouting, and he heard the sound of metal crunching, sound waves thundering upon the impact of her bones against a metal shell. And flames were crackling, and people were screaming, and suddenly Eren was Rogue again, completely unsure of what was going on around him.

He toppled onto his back, and he shook the world around him just because he could. _Eren_, Armin said, _Eren! What the fuck are you doing?!_

He lay on his back, the busted road digging into his sides, and he began to cry. Fire and ash clung to his eyelashes, his eyelids, and he cried gray tears, thick and soupy and angry. He clawed at his eyes, and screamed, because he was so fucking angry, and he wanted it all to go away.

"Eren," his father had whispered, wiping the ash and gray-paste tears that clung to his round, chubby cheeks. "Eren, what happened…?"

_Why do you care?_ Eren had thought, his lips parted in dull shock. _You weren't there. You're never there. You ran away from us, like you always do. And look at you. And look at me. I couldn't save her. I couldn't fucking save her_.

"I couldn't save her," Eren had whispered back numbly. His entire body began to shake. The sound of metal filled his ears, and fire burned his eyes. Tears spilt onto his cheeks, hot and residual of ash and misery. He stared at his father's face, swimming in the chilly depths of his memory, sad and pitying, always pitying, always trying to help but at a distance, as though he'd catch some terrible disease by merely touching Eren's decaying, angry, shaky body. Before this moment, Eren could barely recall the last time his father had smiled at him, let alone condescended to touch him. "I couldn't do it, I couldn't— I tried, but I couldn't move, I _couldn't_—!"

"This isn't your fault, Eren," his father had murmured, smoothing back his hair. "If you had gone back in to save her, you would have died too, don't you see?"

"I should have, then!" Eren had cried, his voice breaking into an agonized, breathy sob. "I should just die, already!"

"Eren!" The voice was not his father's. It was softer, higher, warmer. But his father had spoken, his brow knitted in that awful, pitying way of his.

"You know it," Eren had gasped, wanting nothing more than to shove his father away. "You know that it should have been me, and I bet you hate me for it, right? I hate me for it. I hate— I hate being weak, and I hate that I couldn't save her! Why the _fuck_ couldn't I save her?"

"Eren—!"

He slammed his hands down on his knees, and the sound of metal snapping made him aware of his humanity. Eren Jaeger looked up at his father, and he jumped to his feet. He swayed, and he stared with flames in his eyes and metal grinding feebly, and his nostrils flared in rage.

"I don't wanna be weak," Eren said, his voice as shaky as his knees. "I ain't gonna lay down and take it no more. You've gotta make me strong."

His father's eyes were suddenly no longer pitying. They were scared. Terrified. Eren was glad. He wanted his father to be scared of him, scared of what he could be capable of. "Eren…" his father had whispered. He was pleading with his voice, with that single word, with a name that he could not control.

"Make me strong," Eren had demanded, his lips trembling, his eyes red and puffy from the smoke and the fury and the crushing, paralyzing pain of knowing he was now alone, and his father would never be able to understand him the way his mother had. "Make me strong, like you said you'd do for Armin."

"Did Armin tell you that?" his father had asked.

"No," Eren had said with graceless bitterness. "Armin thinks you're gonna kill him. He says it all the time, y'know, that he's gonna die in here, gonna die, gonna die, and you just don't care, do you, that that's what everyone thinks of you, as the blessed damn grim reaper, 'cause that's your shtick, ain't it? You just take people, and make them think you're gonna save them, but they know better." Eren's face was glistening, but there were no tears now. Only fire. Only rage. "If you can't make me strong, then get away from me! I don't wanna ever see you again!"

"Eren!"

"Go!" Eren shoved his father, but ended up falling flat on his back. And he lay there, shuddering, the ashes of his former house kissing his cheeks, and he stared up at the stars that could not be seen through the layers of smoke that had caused the heavens to go filmy and dark. And he lifted his chin to them, a mocking salute, his trembling lips parting and his blackened teeth baring. And he screamed.

"Eren!" Armin was pounding a fist into his large forehead, and Eren was still screaming, seven years later, and he was still struggling to get to his feet. "Get up! Eren, you—" Armin's voice was strained, and Eren wondered if this was the same battered boy from his memory. "Fuck! You stupid, stupid big, dumb— urgh!" Armin's palms slammed down upon Eren's brow. "I can't even be articulate when I talk to you, you're so dumb! Get up!"

His words were funny. Eren chuckled, and his entire body vibrating with the sound. Armin froze, and he straightened up, sitting upon Eren's nose and blinking rapidly. Eren poked him gently with one giant finger, and the boy squeaked. _Shuddap, you're the dumb one_, Eren thought. He wished he could smile. _Dummy_.

Armin managed a strangled laugh, though it sounded forced. "Your head," Armin said, "is not even remotely okay, Eren. I can't even begin to figure out what's going on inside it."

'_S okay_, Eren said. _Nothin' important, I don't think. Just daddy stuff, nothin' exciting_.

At least, he didn't think it was. He could remember that he'd been thinking about his father, and about his mother's death, but… it was all pretty hazy.

Armin stood up, and he jumped down from Eren's face and onto his chest as he struggled to raise himself. All around him, there was chaos. Eren saw Mikasa standing beside a bulky man, blond haired and brutish. But he was grinning, and he nodded to her, grabbing her by the arm and swinging her off the ground and around and around until her momentum was enough to sail her high enough in the air to catch that goddamn fire breathing robot of hell. She did, of course, and Eren watched her punch a nice dent into the side of its hunched abdomen. Annie was standing beside a very tall boy, her neck craned up at another giant robot— this one looking strangely feminine in form. And then Annie ran forward, and Eren saw pillars of ice rise beneath her feet with every stride she took.

Armin slipped off of Eren and onto the road, standing there for a moment and looking around him in awe. The destruction was… massive. It was like any popcorn flick Eren had ever seen, complete with the giant fucking robots and the burning, overturned cars— and holy fuck, this was shitty. What was even happening right now, like…?

_From what I gathered_, Armin said, _Reiner and Bertholdt ended up here too. Mikasa's friends, Jean and Marco, they're here, and two girls with them. Reiner said one of them was apparently at the institution too, but I don't remember her. But I don't really remember Reiner and Bertholdt very well either, so…_

That struck a chord with Eren, and he sat up, blinking between his old friends as they stood in the middle of the road, watching the destruction with the same expression of loss on their faces.

_Reiner and Mikasa called the Dancer— sorry, that's what I'm calling the fire one. Annie said she wanted to take the Female one, and Marco and Jean are pretty much just distracting the Armored one until you can fight it._ Armin looked up, his large blue eyes watching him tiredly from behind his tiny spectacles. _Can you fight it, Eren?_

Eren rose to his feet. Instead of responding, he opened up his mouth, skinless and terrible, and he roared with all the fury and all the inexplicable misery that had surfaced from his past. He ran, his bones stretching as his muscles worked to get at the Armored robot— the only one that could be the Armored one, tall and plated with steel in all the right places in order to prevent immediate damage. Everyone on the ground moved away from him as he dove at the monstrous robot, his fist connecting with its mighty metal jaw.

It blinked at him. Eren couldn't tell if it did that with a hint of intelligence, with a spark of humor, or if it just blinked because it was in its circuitry to blink.

The robot backhanded Eren so hard, he flew into the side of a building, and glass shredded through his shoulder as windows and steel shattered and bent around him, burrowing into his flesh and gnawing eagerly at his exposed muscle. Eren roared again, his head flying back, and he kicked the robot away, sending it staggering into the building across the street. Glass was raining down onto the road, and bathing the busted, cracked walkways with shards of the glimmering morning sky.

Eren pulled himself from out of the side of the building, and he glowered at the robot. He'd finish this. He had to.

Armin's verbal cry forced Eren to tear his eyes away from the robot. He saw, alarmed and furious, that the robot that Annie had claimed had grabbed Armin. Literally, Armin was clutched in its giant metal fist as it brought it up to its face. Annie was lying in the street, and Eren saw that she'd frozen her entire right arm. Eren didn't know if it was because it was broken, or if she was using it as a weapon.

_Armin!_ Mikasa cried. She had just jumped from a roof.

_I'm okay_, he said, though his mental voice sounded strained. _It's not hurting me, it's just staring. Mikasa, I think they're sentient_.

_Isn't that bad?_ Mikasa had completely ditched her own robot claim, and was running at the vaguely female one. _You said that was bad._

_None of them have actually killed anyone_, Armin said. He was sort of just hanging limply in the hand of the giant robot. _So I'm not— oh, crap_—

_Armin?_ Eren called out into their mindlink. He noticed the fingers clutching Armin were crystallizing. And Armin with them. _Armin!_

And then it dropped him. Something zoomed past its fingers, and Eren heard it chip away at the metal, grazing the frozen knuckles and colliding with the ground. And down Armin went. He screamed, his white cloak fluttering around him as he was whipped through the air not dissimilarly from how Eren had before he had transformed. There were feral dogs tripping over themselves to get at Armin. There were jackals in the wind, waiting for him to crash against the pavement before they tore him apart.

A blur of color caught Eren's eye, a whoosh of green in a sea of gray and black and white and the reflection of blue against the glimmering glass that littered the vacant Chicago street. The haze of bright green caught Armin, and skidded to a stop not too far from Eren's foot. It was a boy, standing with his dark face raised to look up at Eren, and both his arms clutching Armin as he clawed at his chest, wheezing softly.

It was a boy Eren had never seen before. Not at the institute, not anywhere. He had a dark face, and a shaved head, and a pair of eyebrows shaped almost purposely to make him appear confused, and a lopsided smile that suggested he had no idea what he was actually doing.

"'Sup?" the boy called up to Eren. Eren started as someone jumped onto his shoulder from _somewhere_ above him, and he blinked at the grinning brunette girl who decided to poke him in the face with a fucking bow.

"Holy crap!" crowed the girl. "You're Rogue!"

* * *

_I remember writing this chapter and thinking, "How the fuck is any of this gonna make sense?" Well, after the chapter I just wrote, everything in this story seems like a cohesive piece of art. (Meaning, I feel so sorry for anyone who manages to trek through the seventeenth chapter. Good fucking luck.)_

_Oh, the next chapter is a change of pace! It's completely a flashback! God bless. So you won't find out what happens next until the chapter after this, and even then it's a bit shifty because of the point of view I chose. My mistake. I regret it, but I'm not rewriting the chapter, so oops. That's what I get for trying out new point of views._

_By the way, there was no colossal robot because like...? That would have really destroyed Chicago, and that's not what I wanted. _


	10. to not go forward is to go backward

_**non progredi est regredi**_

**Salem, Oregon**

_2760, A.U.C_.

Connie Springer had the normalest of early childhoods. No, really. He had a mom and a dad, and a bunch of siblings, and a house in the suburbs that was cozy, but not too small, and there was nothing strange— his mother wasn't murdered on his birthday, he wasn't from the future, he didn't have a clone or an evil twin, and he was pretty damn sure he wasn't Magneto's son.

So, like, when he was a toddler, he went to daycare one day and became friends with Sasha Braus. He couldn't remember how. He couldn't remember if it was before or after she'd stolen his cracker jacks box and guzzled the entirety of it, leaving only the toy. He couldn't remember if she had pushed him off the swing because she'd been teasing him, or because she hated his guts at the time and wanted that fucking swing to herself, and he couldn't remember when or how they'd gotten to the point where they were racing every day on the playground (he always won), or throwing rocks at the busted windows of old buildings to see who could make 'em shatter (she always won).

His and Sasha's was the kind of friendship that didn't really have a beginning or end. They lived their lives circulating around each other, never considering the fact that they were totally dependent on one-another for survival in the great wide world. Not that they couldn't survive without each other— Sasha could probably survive a nuclear apocalypse, honestly— but Connie found that he was very unhappy when Sasha wasn't around. He'd turn to tell a joke, and there was nothing but an empty space. He hated that feeling. It made him feel like something bad had happened.

When they'd been six, Connie had been invited over to Sasha's house for the first time. Sasha had lived a little farther out at the time, near a little forest where her father had taken her and Connie. That was the first time Connie had ever seen Sasha's archery at work, and he would never not be impressed by her concentration and precision. She was a total klutz when it came to, well, everything— but hunting was different. Sasha could hunt with her eyes closed.

Anyway, the moral of that story is basically never take Connie Springer hunting, because he will cry. And run away. And when you serve him your most recent kill for dinner that night, he'll cry even _more_, and you'll have to pat his back awkwardly as he hiccups and tries not to puke. After the first three times, Sasha became mindful of Connie's sensitivity to the death of animals, and whenever he came over the meat was store bought, and there was lots and lots of vegetables and fruit for him to gnaw at.

When they'd been seven, Sasha had moved away.

That had hurt.

Seven-year-old Connie Springer was loud. He was sociable. He made fart jokes and pretended he was bigger than he really was and got beat up on the playground, but mostly because he was begging for someone to beat him up so he could come home and grin up at his mom when she asked what had happened, and say, "Momma, I punched a guy in the face!" She got sick of that after awhile, but eventually Connie started getting a reputation for being a reckless, mindless ball of energy, and once just about everyone had a go at him, no one really wanted to fight him anymore.

So, when Sasha had moved away, Connie had been hit unlike he'd ever been hit before. The universe had given Connie its best right hook, and Connie had gone flying. He'd lost teeth. He'd torn his lips on the asphalt of fate. He'd sat up, bloodied and bold and breathing heavy. And then, he'd washed his face with his tears.

Sasha didn't move very far. It was almost an hour by car. Just far enough that she had to go to another school. Just far enough that it would be too far to run, by anyone's calculations. Too arduous to ride a bike. Too much effort to keep a friendship going. It was like everyone expected Connie and Sasha to just quit right then and there. Their friendship was basically over. They'd never last. They were just two really dumb kids who made each other feel smart. They made each other laugh. That was all their friendship was really based on.

Against all expectations, though, Connie didn't quit. He figured out a route from his house to Sasha's house. It took him about two hours to run there. He got really good at it, the running. He figured, if he had to be good at something it might as well be the one thing he really needed, right? Right? Well, he thought so, at least. He actually ended up winning a few awards for it in the year post-Sasha's move. He'd been so surprised that his parents had praised him on something that it made him want to run more and more. It took him about an hour and a half to run to her house by the time Connie was eight, and barely an hour when he rode his bike.

He rode his bike one dark, damp, humid summer day, his wheels splashing puddles into the air, and his pedals squeaking miserably against the rust and the rain. He'd almost decided not to go to Sasha's today, but they were supposed to go wading in the creek near her house, and he didn't want to pass up the chance to dunk her. It'd just be a waste of a perfectly good, perfectly rainy day.

Connie had no real concept of safety at eight. He saw that there was a path he could take to Sasha's house. He took it. He didn't think twice. His mother never stopped him, his siblings never noticed his absence. In truth, he felt a little like a nobody in his own home. At least in the Braus house his presence was made aware by the fact that there was meat from Price Chopper on the table, and not from the Cold Room (the creepiest room in the entire house, with dank, wet walls, and a temperature low enough to allow you to walk into a wall of cold air upon entrance, where the frigid atmosphere rose up from beneath the cold, stained concrete floor and flooded the body with chilled terror as one stared upon all the strung up meat). So nobody gave a fuck where he was, really, since they already knew, and he was always back by nine.

He'd been taking this path every day for about a year. He had been running every day for the past month or so, and his little sister, Eliza, had left his bike out for weeks, allowing rust to gather at its chain and pedals. Connie had yelled at her for it, but she had simply stuck out her tongue, and taunted him with one of her Barbies. He was pretty sure she'd cursed him, or something, because she'd gotten her hands on an Esmeralda doll from the Disney version of _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_, and apparently she was the Fearsome Witch of Salem, Elizabeth of Spring. Connie had been convinced, because of his dumb little sister, that the Salem Witch Trials had happened in his good ol' home town for years. No one had corrected him. What assholes.

So, there he was. Dim, dark summer afternoon. Connie Springer, with his tiny blue bike, and hair still on his head, and a pale green zip-up that wasn't even his, it was his sister's (an older one, Mari), and it had some dumb band written on the back that he couldn't really read so he just didn't. You'd think someone would be able to see that sweatshirt, because the rain wasn't heavy, not really, it was just a faint drizzle that misted across the bottom of the hill, and Connie went down it like he usually did. Fast as lightning, no turning back. The roads were slippery, and there was no traction for the tires to work with. Connie realized before he got to the foot of the hill that there was something wrong, so he backpedaled. The breaks didn't work. The chain was too rusted.

Later, in the hospital, Connie would say that he couldn't remember being hit, but that was a lie. He remembered it with the sort of clarity that he'd carry with him for the rest of his life. He woke up to the sound of a horn blaring. The majority of his body reacted whenever something metal crashed to the floor. He felt the terror of being thrown from his bike and rolled over the hood of a car whenever he closed his eyes, but he tried to smile it off, because he wanted to pretend it had never happened, that he hadn't lain across the slick black road, blood pooling around him, his limbs bent awkwardly and painfully, that he hadn't been staring up at the sky for minutes, minutes, minutes as a young man knelt beside him and apologized profusely for everything, he was so sorry, so sorry, but Connie had no idea who he was, and he hadn't seen his face, and he would never know now, would he?

At the time, Connie only knew death like he knew Europe. Europe was a place. It existed. People talked about it a lot with respect, and Connie figured he'd probably go there someday, even though it sounded a bit like a mythical paradise. That was death to him. Just a place he'd inevitably visit. There was no real comprehension there, there was no weight. There was no shock in the idea that someone went away and never came back. Connie's childhood was the normalest of childhoods. Nobody died. He was not an adopted Kryptionian baby. There was no concept of tragedy to him, unless Sasha's abrupt move to the fucking boondocks counted.

So laying on the very cold, very damp pavement, unable to move, unable to breathe, pained and paralyzed, Connie had not been thinking about his imminent death. He'd been thinking about Sasha. He'd been thinking about how she'd be waiting on her porch for him, and he'd still be lying there like an idiot because he couldn't feel his legs, and he didn't know why.

He had no clue how exactly he'd gotten to the hospital, but he'd woken up about a day after he'd been hit, and he remembered thinking he could really just go for Mrs. Braus's chicken salad. It didn't occur to him that he was in a hospital. He'd thought he was in his room for about five minutes after waking before he noticed the needle stuck inside his arm.

"You'll never walk again."

That's not the type of thing you wanna wake up to, especially when you're eight years old, the last thing you remember is the taste of your own blood filling your mouth, you realize your bike is trashed, and you won't be getting your fucking chicken salad.

Luckily Sasha had come bearing food, and she'd only eaten a quarter of it. It meant a lot, actually, coming from Sasha. She'd been incredibly cheerful throughout her entire visit, avoiding the topic of his accident and running, just babbling senselessly about nothing, and he couldn't help but laugh and smile with her, because even though he felt a little shattered on the inside, she had the ability to solidify him, if not for just a little while.

The funny thing about being crippled was that suddenly everyone was acutely aware of your presence. Connie Springer, who had been utterly invisible previous to the accident, was suddenly being watched wherever he went. He felt their eyes on his back, felt them with their pity and their caution, as though he was some poor, suffering animal left on the side of the road that they didn't want to approach, but couldn't look away from. Everyone handled him as though he was something fragile, something tender and teetering on the edge of complete destruction. His parents talked to him as though he was four years younger than he really was. Marigold avoided him, and once when he'd tried to give her back the green sweater he'd stolen from her that day, she'd gotten very upset.

"Why would I want it now?" she asked with her dark face pinched in disgust. Or, possibly pain. "It's all dirty. See, there's mud all over it." Connie sat in his wheelchair, green zip-up in his lap, and he looked down at it. He knew it wasn't mud.

Marigold was ten, and because she was the oldest she thought she knew everything, and she could do anything, and it really pissed Connie off because she was only two years older than him, and she wasn't any better at anything, really, except being a royal whiner. She looked a little like Connie, with her round, dark face, and acutely turned up eyebrows. But her nose was rather pointy, while Connie's was round like a button, and she had a trace of freckles along the bridge of her nose.

"Well I don't want it," Connie said. "Take it back."

"No," Mari said, taking a step back as he rolled into her room. "What are you doing? Get out."

"No," Connie said, his arms aching from the strain of pushing himself around everywhere. The lady at the clinic told him it'd get easier, but he thought she was lying. "Take it. I don't wanna look at it."

"Well, neither do I!" Mari shouted, her dark eyes flying wide. "It's— it's gross, okay, just get out of here!"

"What do you want me to do," Connie said thickly, his tiny fingers resting against the wheels of his chair. "Just throw it away?"

"_Yeah_, actually," Mari said, whirling away from him and flopping onto her bed. She shared a room with Eliza, so the area was very cramped, and there was very little space for Connie to maneuver his chair around. It was a problem, he noticed, that he would find everywhere. There were no wheelchair friendly places. Only haphazard attempts to be inclusive. "Chuck it. I don't want it, you don't want it— God, Connie, why did you even keep it in the first place?"

"I thought you'd want it back," Connie said, his voice rising in frustration. "Well, oops, then, sorry I tried to be nice!"

"Just get out," Mari said.

"Why are you being so weird?" Connie asked. His eyes were wide, and he watched his sister lay on her bed, her dark legs dangling off the sides, and her chin tilted toward the ceiling. "I'm not even bothering you."

"Yeah, you are," Mari said, bolting up straight. "'Cause you won't leave me alone. Just leave."

"Are you mad that I got blood and stuff on your shirt?" Connie asked. He saw his sister freeze, her eyebrows shooting upward and her mouth dropping open. She looked as though someone had slapped her hard across the cheek, and Connie kinda wished he'd done it himself, because she was being a terror to deal with today.

"Connie!" Mari shouted, as though he'd uttered some foul curse.

He sunk back into his chair, his eyes widening in disbelief. "_What_?" He rolled closer to her bed, and she jumped to her feet. "What is it? Why are you acting so stupid?"

"Get out," Mari said, her arm jutting out toward the door. "Jesus, Connie, you're so annoying!"

"And you're _stupid_!" Connie cried. He plucked the stained green sweater from his lap and hurled it as hard as he could at her. It landed on her head, and she cried out in alarm, stumbling backwards as she tore it from her face and shrieked, flicking it away from her as though it'd give her cooties. Connie tried to turn himself around, but he couldn't move the wheels right, and he looked up fearfully as Mari marched up to him, fury clear in her face as she grabbed hold of the handles of his wheelchair.

"I'm so sick of you," Mari hissed under her breath. Her voice was shaking as she jerked his chair forcefully, and he yelped, clutching the sides of it desperately. She moved him outside the door with too much of her strength, and he went sliding down the hall a few feet before being spilled out of his seat. She'd already slammed the door, and Connie's lip trembled pitifully as he rolled himself onto his stomach. After a few minutes of struggling, and listening to the quiet sound of sobbing from behind Marigold's door, his father found him on the floor.

"I fell off," Connie lied thickly, his throat aching from unshed tears.

Eliza and Mark were the only people in the house who didn't treat him any differently. Mark was only four, so he didn't really understand what was going on, but Connie noticed that he liked to spin the wheels on the wheelchair, so sometimes Connie would roll up to him and let the toddler make soft _vroom-vroom_ noises as he flicked at the wheels that were just about his size. Eliza was an equally good sport about it, taking to moving aside the furniture in the living room so she could push Connie around and around and around until they both got dizzy. Sometimes he'd let her climb on his lap, and he'd spin them both around until she was giggling hysterically, and declaring them adventurers, and it made Connie feel like maybe he could live with this after all, because it made Eliza happy, and that was something that didn't happen often.

The worst thing about it, though, was that Connie never saw Sasha anymore. Sometimes she'd show up at his house, claiming she'd snuck out and taken the path that he always took, but she couldn't do it often. Her father caught her almost every time, and she wasn't allowed to run from her house to his because it was too dangerous. They made the most of the time they had, but it was very little.

"Can I try?" Sasha asked one spring day. He'd grown used to the wheelchair, but he felt utterly powerless in it. And he missed running. He missed being invisible. He missed being able to move through his own house without everyone getting all antsy and worried, their expressions crumpling.

He was plucking dandelions from his front lawn, popping off their heads with his thumb. "What do you mean?" he asked, tossing aside the dewy, decapitated remains of the weed.

"Your chair," Sasha said. "Can I ride in it?"

"It's not a kiddy ride, Sasha," Connie said, grimacing at how eager she looked. "It's not fun."

"I don't wanna have _fun_," Sasha said, grabbing both his armrests and staring into his eyes with her great big brown ones. "I wanna know what it's like."

"Not fun," Connie said, smacking her cheek gently with the back of his hand so she'd back off.

"Well, _yeah_," Sasha groaned, throwing her head back. "Yeah, I know, but I wanna try. To see if I could do it. If, you know, our places were switched, and stuff."

"You're dumb," Connie informed her. He began to adjust his grip on the chair anyway. The thing about being wheelchair bound? Your upper body strength improves a lot. He easily pushed himself from the chair, and slid into the patch of dandelions.

"Nuh uh," Sasha said, tossing her body into the chair. "_You're _dumb."

"There is no way I'm dumber than you, it's not even possible," Connie declared, adjusting his legs in the grass so they didn't just sit awkwardly, uselessly…

"Too late, buddy boy." Sasha grinned, and she attempted to maneuver the chair out of the grass. "Crap, how does this thing work?"

"Figure it out yourself," Connie said, flopping onto his back in the soft, slightly overgrown grass. He closed his eyes as the wind whistled softly through the cluster of dandelions. He listened to Sasha grunt and hiss in irritation as she tried to push Connie's wheelchair onto the sidewalk. _This is nice_, Connie thought, blades of grass tickling his dark cheeks. If he lay there long enough, his entire body might fall numb, and then he wouldn't even notice that he couldn't move his legs. _It's dumb that it's not always like this_. Connie didn't like to complain about his disability. There was no point. There was no rectifying it. There was only acceptance, and he dealt with that with all the blissful ignorance of a nine year old.

Connie's eyes snapped open. The sound of grinding metal filled his ears, and he was unable to fully comprehend what that meant. Connie was a simple kid, he didn't need much to keep himself going. He didn't think anything could break him, because he was already broken, and he'd lost all sense of faith in the people around him and even himself. He'd gotten into the habit of not caring, not wanting to be cared for, and just relinquishing all his emotions to a grand abyss.

"Sasha?" Connie called. A bumblebee darted past overhead. Its buzzing left an echo in Connie's ears, and the wind rustled through the dandelions, and his heart thudded in his chest as he perched himself onto his elbows, his head lifting ever so slightly to the road that was only three yards away. Connie spotted his wheelchair, overturned on the sidewalk, one wheel still spinning, and the entire world screeched to a halt around him. "Sasha!"

He found himself on his stomach, his fingernails digging into the rain-softened dirt, pulling up grass by its roots as he dragged himself frantically, hopelessly toward the vacant wheelchair. He clawed and crawled, hefted his body forward and listening to his own ragged breath as he over-exerted himself, and by the time he pressed his blackened fingers to the glittering sidewalk, he was heaving and gasping and shaking so terribly that he thought he was gonna puke.

"Sa—" He pulled his body, all his weight, and he felt tears sting his eyes. "Sasha…!"

He yelped as Sasha jumped right over the overturned wheelchair, landing before Connie in a crouch, and grinning broadly down at him as she rested one arm on her bloody knee. It'd been skinned finely, and the front of her leg was streaked crimson and black.

"Boo!" she cried, throwing her head back and laughing. "Got you good, huh, Connie?"

He stared at her. He couldn't understand why she would do something so cruel to him. "What…?" Connie choked on his tears as they flooded his eyes, effectively blinding Sasha from him. "What the _heck_, Sasha?!"

"What…?" Sasha sounded so oblivious, and he wanted to smack her. "Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself, or somethin'? Should I go get your mom? Connie, look at me. Hey, Connie. Con. Conster. Conman…" Connie had folded his arms out in front of him, and buried his face in them. He was shaking so badly, and he wanted to scream at her for being so damn stupid, stupid fucking Sasha, and her stupid fucking jokes. "Connie, come on, please look at me and tell me you're okay. Connie." She poked his shoulder. "Hey." She prodded his arm. "Connie, Connie, Connie, Connie— Constantino, you big dummy, stop moping and look—" She shook him, grabbing him by the back of his shirt and rattling him desperately. "Connie!"

"Why…" Connie's shoulders hunched as he tried to hold the tears back. But he couldn't. "Why would you… I don't get it, why would you do that, why would you pretend to…?"

"It was just a joke, Connie…"

"It was terrible!" Connie's voice shook as tears glimmered onto his cheeks. "You're terrible! You… you…!"

"I'm sorry…" Sasha gasped, kneeling down in spite of her bloody knee. "I… I didn't mean to… I only wanted to make you laugh, that's all, Connie, please… please don't cry…"

Connie couldn't help it. He'd been trying so hard to keep himself together, but he didn't know how, he didn't understand, and it was unbearable. The world was unbearable. He was living in a world that was moving in fast forward, a breathless blur of color and sound, and he was stuck, trapped, and dying to get free just so he could run and join the rapid movement.

"Hey…" Sasha reached out, her fingers resting on his shoulders. He jerked away from her, smacking her arms away as he struggled to regain his breath. He looked up at her, all gangly limbs and scrapes and toothy smiles, and he just wanted her to look away for two damn seconds, just long enough for Connie to stop crying, because he felt like such a baby, and he couldn't stand that Sasha was tougher than him. "Can I… can I help you back up on your chair?"

Connie didn't trust himself to speak. He looked at her, and he shook his head furiously, wiping at his eyes with dirt caked fingers. Sasha looked at him disbelievingly, and she stood up, giving Connie a nice view of her bloody knee. As she attempted to straighten out the wheelchair, Connie heard the screen door slam from behind him.

"Connie?" It was Mari's voice that drifted from the porch, curious and cautious. At the sound of her voice Connie's eyes filled with fresh tears, and he wanted to scream and run around and kick something, anything, just to get the rage out, but he couldn't. "What…? Oh my god, Connie!"

Mari's frantic footsteps were enough for him to know that she was angry. She bent down beside him, grabbing him by the arms and lifting him up ever so slightly to look at his face. He twisted away from her, grimacing in frustration. "What're you doing?" Connie grumbled, swatting at his elder sister in hopes that she'd release him. "Lemme go."

"Connie, look at your hands…" Mari gasped, clutching his dirty, scraped up fingers very tightly. "What are you even doing out here by yourself? You know you're not allowed!"

"Shut up!" Connie yanked feebly at his arms, wishing for the umpteenth time that he had use of his legs. "Go away!"

Mari looked up, and she seemed to notice Sasha for the first time. Now, it wasn't the first time Sasha had visited, but it was the first time Mari had the chance to be alone with her. And there was clear disdain in Mari's eyes as she looked upon the amber-eyed girl. Connie twisted, and he fought, but Mari was stronger than him by a bunch, and he just couldn't slip her grasp.

"Um…" Sasha said with a weak smile. "Hi?" She pushed Connie's wheelchair toward Mari gently, and Mari stared at her for a long time. Then she plucked Connie from the ground like it was nothing, and no matter how much he screamed at her, she got him back upright in his chair. Sasha stood awkwardly behind it, kicking a rock around the sidewalk until and fell into the road. "Sorry, Marigold, but, y'know, me and Connie wanted to play, so—"

"Look, I don't really care," Mari said. She straightened up, and Connie sat in his chair and stared up at her with his face expressing all his shock and anger. Tears were still glistening on his cheeks.

"Mari!" Connie cried, his voice breaking miserably.

Mari ignored him, and she stepped behind his wheelchair and grasped the handles. As she began to push him, Sasha followed fast, all but bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Well, I just thought you oughta know, because it's not Connie's fault or anything, I just wanted to try out the chair—"

Mari stopped. Connie gripped the armrests of his wheelchair in absolute terror, and he felt his sister's rage as she whipped around to face Sasha. "Connie," she said. "Go inside."

"What?" Connie squeaked. "No way!"

"Just do it."

"No!" He wheeled his chair around so he was watching Mari, whose nostrils flared in frustration.

"Fine," Mari snapped at him. She turned her attention to Sasha, who merely stood on the sidewalk, looking a little bewildered. "You need to stop hanging around my brother, got it?"

"What?" Sasha stared at Mari, blinking rapidly. And then she burst into laughter. Connie merely sat, stunned and speechless. "Ha ha, wowie, Mar', that was pretty funny. Gosh, you're face is so serious and everything."

"Do honestly think I'm _joking_?" Mari's voice heightened so much in pitch that Connie winced. "Oh my god, are you dumb? Don't you get it? You're not helping! You just make everything so much worse, and— and—!" Mari huffed in exasperation, and she shook her head in utter incredulity. "Just stop, okay?"

"_You _stop!" Connie cried.

"Connie, didn't I say to go inside?"

"You can't tell me what to do," Connie said. "You're not any more grown up than me, you know, so you should stop actin' all high and mighty. And stop picking on Sasha!"

"I'm just telling her the truth," Marigold said coolly. Her dark face turned to Connie's, and she raised her chin high. "Mom and dad think so too. They say it's all her fault, you know, and they just don't want to tell you because the situation is _delicate_."

_I'm delicate, you mean_, Connie thought, his eyes widening in shock. He didn't dare look at Sasha. He couldn't handle her reaction right now. "Shut up."

"Is that all you can say?" Mari rounded on him, and Connie flinched. Immediately upon seeing Connie's face, Mari's harsh demeanor seemed to melt. "I don't want to talk about this to you, Connie. Please, just go inside."

"I'm not gonna let you talk to Sasha like that," Connie said, even though he'd been angry at his friend only five minutes previous. "It's not her fault. None of this has to do with her at all, just— why would you even…? Just shut up, Mari, you load of crap, you don't know _anything_, you—!"

"Connie…" Sasha said. Connie had to force himself to look at her. And for someone who had just been completely chewed out for things she wasn't remotely responsible for, she was doing pretty good. Or at least, at first glance. She smiled at him weakly. "It's okay. I need to head home anyways, so…" Sasha took a step back onto the road. "Bye, then, Connie. Bye, Mari."

Connie shouted after her as she ran off, and he sat in his wheelchair, completely struck to silence. Mari stared after Sasha, and she was frowning. She looked down at Connie with a sad, desperate gaze. "Connie…"

"Don't talk to me," Connie told her, wheeling himself around. "You're so stupid, and I hate you."

"What?" Mari sounded so shocked, and Connie glared ahead of him. "You're the stupid one, Connie!"

"I said don't talk to me!" Connie cried, wheeling himself up the ramp leading to his porch.

After that, it got harder and harder to reach Sasha. She didn't come over anymore. They barely even spoke, and Connie blamed stupid Marigold for being so stupid and nosy, like what a bitch. Connie was left to… well, nothing. He couldn't even stand to look at Mari, who was so self-righteous and stupid, and he didn't want to talk to his parents, who clearly had no understanding of him since they thought that _Sasha_ was the biggest problem in his life. Sasha! Literally the only person in the world who effortlessly got him, like no questions asked, just an easy friendship. Sure, they fought, because Sasha could be insensitive, and Connie could be a brat, but otherwise their friendship was absolutely flawless, and he didn't get why his parents would try to break that up. Why they were _succeeding_.

All he had now were Eliza and Mark, and even they got bored of him. Mark told him that his chair wasn't as fun as the spinny chair in daddy's office, and Eliza didn't want to sit on his lap anymore, she just wanted to play with her dolls. Connie was getting to the point where he didn't trust himself not to say awful things in front of his parents and older sister, so he just avoided them altogether.

One sunny day at the beginning of that summer, Connie decided that he wanted to figure something out. He couldn't run anymore. He couldn't ride a bike. But he could wheel himself pretty well. So, when nobody was keeping tabs on him one humid summer afternoon, Connie set off on the familiar path to Sasha's house. It'd been forever since he'd taken it, and at first he thought he completely forgot it, but eventually he got back into the groove of his surroundings. Not much had changed in a year, and he was pretty glad for that.

Half an hour into his amazing journey, Connie began to notice the clouds shifting over the sun. His arms had started cramping about a mile back, but he was still going, still carefully following the road, keeping his eyes straight ahead. He had a mantra he thought to himself every time a car whistled past_. No one will hit a boy in a wheelchair, no one will hit a boy in a wheelchair, no one will, no one will_…

It began raining after an hour. The tires of his wheels were too slick to grip properly, and his hands kept slipping, getting painfully caught between the armrest and the wheel. Connie was amazed. His luck. It was the shittiest. There was no doubt about it. He could not believe that the world had turned against him so viciously, so suddenly, so hopelessly.

The rain got heavier and heavier, and it got very hard to see. And Connie, who had gotten pretty good at wheeling himself around, caught another bout of misfortune by running over a particularly grand pothole that he hadn't seen due to the haze of rain, and the mist surrounding him. And, of course, his wheelchair spat him out like something nasty that just couldn't be washed down. Connie spilt out onto the ground, half in a puddle, half on the street, and he was at a loss now. Because he was an hour and a half away from home, without any means of contacting his family, with cramping arms and crippled legs, and nothing, nothing, nothing but rain and a mantra that didn't even apply, because he was certainly not in a wheelchair anymore.

It was a pitiful sight, a nine year old boy lying immobile in a great tarn of a puddle, his clothes soaking the water right up, and tears bleeding into rain as he began to sob softly, senselessly, choking on dirty rainwater and emptiness. Nothing, nothing, nothing. This was not what Connie wanted, and this was not what Connie had imagined for himself. He wanted to run races. He wanted to ride bikes. He wanted to get beaten up, but be able to fight back, because it was only fair, and he wanted to just be himself without any of this… this utter fucking bullshit that was his life.

He didn't know how long he laid on the side of the road. He could have tried to crawl back to his wheelchair, but he wouldn't be able to turn it upright. He knew that. He decided that it was easier to just curl up and cry than try to fix things. He was tired, and the world around him was too fast and too ugly for him to dare to look at.

Being found was a relief that he didn't remember all too well. Neither was being taken to the hospital. He must have passed out, because when he woke up, he was suddenly in a hospital bed, and it was much warmer, and he was wearing different clothes, and there was a stupid needle in his arm again. _Great,_ he thought, resting his head back against his pillow and frowning to himself. _What was I doing again…?_

A woman was standing at the foot of his bed. Connie stared at her, his eyes widening, and he looked around for a doctor, or for his mother, but no. It was just a woman. Not even a woman, really, she looked kinda young, like she was still in school, and shouldn't be working yet. She was skinny, with a pretty, round face and large brown eyes, and sun-kissed skin that glowed naturally without any help from the luminescent bulbs that hung overhead. She had a nose like a button, a bit like Connie's, and so many freckles that Connie found himself trying to count them. They clustered particularly around her nose and flush of her cheeks, but they were plentiful all across her skin in star-like patterns, splotchy and strangely perfect.

"Hello, Connie," the woman said gently. She was wearing that odd, papery blue color that Connie was very used to by now. So she had to be a nurse. "You just don't stop getting into trouble, huh?"

"Um…" Connie shifted uncomfortably beneath the scratchy hospital blanket. "I guess… Who are you?"

The woman blinked at him, and her smile widened. She tilted her head, and her short brown hair slid into her warm eyes. "You can call me Ilse," she said, resting her hands on the footboard of Connie's bed. "I'm here to make you better."

"I feel fine," Connie croaked. Ilse's eyebrows rose curiously, and he flushed. "Well, I mean, as fine as I can be. Um, Nurse Ilse, is my mom…?"

"She'll be here soon," she said soothingly. Connie slumped in his bed, and he felt his throat constrict painfully, because what he really needed right now was another good sob. "Your grandfather is here, though."

"My…?" Connie hadn't spoken to his grandfather in years. He knew that he was in the hospital, but Connie had never thought he'd end up in the same one as him. "Oh. Okay, then…"

Ilse smiled. She had an infectious smile, and Connie couldn't help but smile back, confused and cautious as he was. There was something weird about her. Something off, as if she was an image projected on a movie screen— too perfect and too serene, and yet, she was standing right in front of Connie without fail.

"If you don't mind me asking," she said softly, straightening up, "what exactly were you trying to accomplish?"

Connie bristled. "Well," he said, "I was trying to get to my friend's house. How was I supposed to know it'd rain?"

Ilse shrugged. She looked around the room, as though the off-white walls somehow interested her, as though she could be captivated by the simplest of surroundings, and Connie bit his lip miserably, trying very hard not to cry, because he didn't want the nurse to see him so upset. He wanted his mother, that was all, and this lady wasn't helping him any by just standing there.

"How old are you, Connie?" Ilse asked. Her chin was raised up, and her warm brown eyes were following the walls, as though she could see something in the pallor of the paint that Connie could not.

"Nine," he said. He plucked at the itchy blanket, scowling as strings of gray wool unraveled between his thumb and forefinger. "How old are _you_?"

Ilse looked at him suddenly, and he could tell that he'd surprised her. She laughed, her eyes brightening in a stunned, excited awe. "Oh," she said, running her fingers through her closely cropped hair. "That's a good question. How old do I look?"

Connie gave her a look, something like a sneer twisting on his lips as he glanced at her. "If I knew," he said irritably, "I wouldn't be asking."

"True," Ilse said. She smiled down at him, and Connie blinked rapidly. This nurse was _weird_. "But I'm really curious!" She flew out her arms and spun swiftly as though to give Connie a better look at her. "How old do I look?"

"Like… I dunno…?" Connie frowned as Ilse turned back to him, wide-eyed and curious, with freckles of youth dancing on her splotchy skin. "Nineteen…?"

"Oh?" Ilse pressed her hand to her cheek, her smile growing tight. "Not a bad guess. But no, not quite."

"Well, I don't know," he said stiffly. He flushed from embarrassment. He rested his head back, and stared up at the ceiling glumly. "You said my mom's coming, right…?"

"Don't worry," Ilse said gently. She strode over to his bedside, and he twisted his head to look up at her. "I'm going to give you something, alright? It might sting a bit." Connie blinked dazedly at the tiny bottle and syringe that had materialized in her bony, freckled hands. She watched him with a smile as she drained the bottle of its colorless liquid by plunging the syringe into its lid. "I'm impressed, you know. You have a lot of determination, in spite of everything that's happened to you. I think you're a lot stronger than everyone else around here thinks."

Connie perked up a little at the praise, and he stared up at the nurse with widening eyes. "Really?" he blurted, straightening up. His arm ached mildly from the needle, but he ignored it. "You think so?"

"Of course!" Ilse beamed down at him, testing the syringe momentarily, and beginning to babble senselessly, her voice very soft and very strained, as though she was holding something crucial back, like a rasp or a lisp or a completely different tone all together, like she was forcing herself to speak this way so not to scare him, but it only made her appear less and less real to Connie, who couldn't help but wonder if he was simply imagining the nurse. "I've always admired people who make up for their physical lack of strength through their perseverance. I think it's because I was very focused on being strong when I was younger, but I was never really strong enough, and that came back to haunt me a little." She took hold of his intravenous drip, but he did not notice. He was completely enthralled in what she was saying, though he couldn't say why. "I should tell you this now, Connie, that though you're very strong, and you're very stubborn, you shouldn't put yourself in situations where it's inevitable for you to lose. You have nothing left to prove, so please don't act so reckless. Especially now."

Connie wasn't sure what she meant. _Especially now_, Connie thought, _because I'm handicapped?_ He blinked as he saw her turn away, empty syringe in hand. He hadn't even noticed she'd injected him, honestly, and now that he thought about it, his arm was beginning to sear a bit around the area where the IV was stuck inside his dermis. He gave an audible hiss, and squirmed a little in his dumb cot of a bed, that supported his back but never allowed him any real rest, and he looked up at Ilse with wide eyes.

"W-what medicine is this?" he stammered, his tiny fingers resting on his steadily throbbing forearm, and then fisting at the blankets around him. Ilse stood with her back to him, her head bowed, and Connie stared at her, and he kept staring until tears gathered in his eyes, obscuring her skinny frame from his sight. His entire arm was trembling, throbbing, taking in pain without any consideration for his poor nerves, his poor, blazing nervous system that felt electrified very suddenly. Tears poured over his cheeks, but he could not feel them. He could only feel fire, and lightning, and the shock of a distant car colliding with his scrawny body, and he couldn't hold back the breathless, tearful, agonized scream that ripped heavily from his throat and echoed through the vacant room as his skin tore apart and knitted back together, his bones snapping and stretching and burning and charring up and smoldering in a heap before reassembling and sparking up once again, a chain of chemical reactions rapidly performed and unraveling and redone in a cyclical motion of a god's precious hand stitching him from life to death to life to death to a divine in-between to a lifeless, hopeless, heartless nothing, to a critical mass of writhing, screeching, unbearable pain.

The doctors had come swarming in, and they were all talking, and Ilse was just standing there, holding her syringe with both hands and never looking straight at Connie, though he could sense her there, sense her unnerving presence in the flaky stream of colors and bright movements that was the flame-encompassed world around him.

His teeth cracked together, his heart speeding too fast, too fast, too fast, _way too fast, slow down, Connie, slow down, slow down, slow down, or you'll kill yourself, Connie, slow down, slow down, just try to slow down, just kick the brakes, it's fine, it's fine, everything is fine, I'm fine, it's fine, please, slow down, or else you'll kill me, and I don't wanna die, not this fast, so please somebody just __**slow it all down**_…

So. A nine-year-old boy lies in a hospital bed. He flatlines.

And there is an amazing, breathless moment of silence that comes with that awful fact, like the beauty of lightning dancing through the sky, and all the knowledge of its deadly nature, but wanting to touch it somehow anyway— to reach up, and graze your fingers across the fissures of luminosity, shadowing the crags in the clouds, and take a prong to heart.

In a way, Connie did.

He bolted upright, his heart thundering back into life from a beautiful, terrible shock.

The chattering of doctors was nothing but a dull thrum of voices, too low and too slow for him to comprehend. Everything was going slow, all the arms moving around him, supporting him as he sucked greedily at the air, tear tracks licking his cheeks, and he stared straight ahead of him as Ilse stood at his headboard, smiling at him sadly. No one was even sparing her a glance. She, who had done this to him, she who had nearly killed him—!

"I'm sorry," Ilse said in her honey-like voice, with her warm eyes glowing with sympathy, and her skinny, freckled fingers touched her neck, which was darkened by a shadow of a ring, angry, madder, madder red. Connie wanted to lunge at her, to yell and thrash and cry until something made some sense. "I'm so sorry for everything, Connie. I'm so sorry…"

_I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, so sorry for everything_…

And, just like the enigmatic driver that had shattered Connie's life a year before, Ilse then disappeared without warning. And Connie was left numb and breathless, trying to understand what had just transpired, because he couldn't have really just died, right? There was no way.

He struggled to speak for a few minutes, but when he did, he caught one of the doctor's by the sleeve, and he stare up into her eyes and croaked, "Where did she go?"

"What?" The doctor blinked down at him in surprise. "Who?"

"The nurse," he whispered, his tongue heavy and his throat dry and his eyes watering. "Ilse. The one who was in here just… just before…"

"There was no one in here, honey," the doctor said carefully, studying Connie with the same pitying gaze he had grown so used to over the past year.

"Wha…?" Connie's head was spinning. "N-no way. No, she was here. She was definitely here, she was in the room when—"

The look on the doctor's face caused Connie to cut himself off. _She doesn't believe me_, Connie thought, stunned. _Either that, or Ilse wasn't_… And as Connie tried to recall Ilse's face, the image became fuzzy and dull. And in the end, he had almost convinced himself that she hadn't been there. When his mother came, squishing him into a hug and chewing him out for being so stupid, Connie just accepted what the doctors told his mother, that the stress from pushing his wheelchair for miles had done a job on his heart.

Connie was a little numb all over, and so he was oblivious to the itch in his toes. He was so oblivious, in fact, that he did not notice until he awoke in the middle of the night, regaining the majority of his senses after some time to heal from whatever had attacked his nervous system earlier in the day. He was sorta like, a hundred and ten percent done with everything ever, and at that point he just wanted a good night's sleep. His mother was sleeping in the chair beside his bed, and he listened to her snoring softly. The sounds were long and slow, rumbling in the vacuous silence.

Connie grimaced, and he wiggled his toes as he curled onto his side, bringing his blanket up over his head. _I wonder if Sasha knows yet_, Connie thought idly as he closed his eyes.

They snapped open in shock.

He flipped onto his back and tore his blanket away, dropping it in alarm as he stared at his bent legs, his cramping knees, and his wiggling toes. Connie's mouth dropped open, his stomach lurching with unbridled excitement as he slowly, carefully pulled one leg up off the bed. It moved. It hovered in midair shakily, painfully, and Connie laughed in agonized amazement, in absolute terror and disbelief and utter joy. And then, he was struck by a sudden, furious urge that could not be ignored.

As his mother slept in the chair beside him, Connie flung his newly mobile legs over the side of the bed. He stood up on buckling knees, his laughter bubbling inside his chest as his baggy sweatpants pooled around his bouncing feet, and he felt incredible, and he felt renewed, like he'd had the life breathed back into him, and suddenly he could fly if he wanted to, because his legs were moving, his tendons were bending, and he was standing. He took a step, and he was walking.

Butterflies were batting at his innards, beating themselves to death against the walls of his churning stomach, and he felt their wings bend and crack, and despite that not even their beauty could be crippled. Connie was grinned almost madly in the darkness, and he stared down at the tube stuck to his arm. He laughed aloud, and tore the needle right out. He didn't care. He didn't care at all, and it was amazing, and he felt so, so amazing. He couldn't fight the urge anymore, the itch that had plagued him for months and months and months— a year of immobility to balance out a lifetime of ceaseless movement.

As his mother woke up with an agonizing slowness to her actions, Connie couldn't even look at her. He couldn't even care. He was too busy feeling the cold linoleum beneath his bare, wiggling toes, and laughing with incredible, breathless euphoria. He didn't hear her speak, because it was too slow for him— the world was too slow, and too beautiful to be real, and he was laughing and bouncing and spinning fast, his body a blur in the shadows, and then he realized that there was nothing tethering him to that fucking bed, and nothing grounding him any longer.

And suddenly he was giving into the urge, and he was running.

He didn't stop for a long time. Because he didn't have to. He was just a blur in the darkness, a laughing, streaking, screaming blur of pure elation flashing through the darkened Oregon streets, and he bent his knees and jumped and kicked up dirt and twirled and twirled until he was something like a tornado funnel, and he laughed at that too, unable to contain himself because he was free, and the world was not, and that made him so inexplicably happy. He felt as though he'd been unshackled, and the earth had frozen upon his release.

The adrenaline didn't wear off, not even when he reached Sasha's house. He threw rock upon rock at her window until she appeared, and she stared at him, and she laughed so hard he thought she was gonna fall right out. And then, she seemed to realize that he was standing, that he was barefoot and standing right outside, and she shrieked with excitement.

"Connie!" she screamed, all but hanging out her window. "Connie, your legs!"

It felt like she was speaking in slow motion, and Connie didn't even care. "I know!" he cried, jumping up in down in the soft, freshly trimmed grass. "I know, I _know_!"

She ended up leaving her room and exiting her house in such a way that immediately upon the slamming of her front door, it was as though all the lights in the house had turned on. But neither Sasha nor Connie cared, because they were both shrieking with delight as she tried to tackle him to the ground, but she was just too slow for him, and suddenly they were chasing each other, kicking and laughing and running, without even daring question the miracle they'd been given.

* * *

_LAUGHS. Wow, all of the comments I got for last chapter were like, "CONNIE AND SASHA! YES, HUMOR AND FUN!" and I just laughed really nervously because this is a really fucking sad chapter. The next one is funny, and it goes back to the main plot, but I felt like Connie's story wasn't something that I could glaze over. It felt important. _

_Sasha and Connie are just so important, always, even if they're not always plot relevant. They deserve so much more than what they get. _


	11. fortune favors the bold

_**fortes fortuna adiuvat**_

**Chicago, Illinois **

_a.d. Kalendas Octobres, 2766 A.U.C._

The easiest way to get through teenage vigilantism was to do one thing. Tell your parents. Sasha and Connie had realized that when they had first begun their stint in heroism. Connie had a better reason to do it than she did— he actually had a superpower now, and that was pretty hard to explain to the family at any rate. Sasha had basically just avoided telling her parents that she sometimes fought crime with Connie until they figured it out, and her father ended up funding her crusade by investing in trick arrows for her.

They didn't get that much attention, so it was mostly just something they did in their spare time with a small budget. Connie wore a neon green morph-suit half the time, when he decided he didn't want to be stealthy. Sasha stuck with a sleeveless green hoodie that cut off at around her midriff, and under that she wore whatever shirt she had on that day. On the first of October, it was a black and white polka-dotted blouse.

"_There is no way in any universe that an archer could beat a speedster_," Connie was saying. Sasha had left her phone on speaker while she got dressed, tilting her chin up and studying her polka-dotted blouse pensively. Nowadays her first thoughts when picking out an outfit were_, Okay, but how upset will I be if I get blood on this?_ Usually that gave her a good reason to not dress up. "_Check it, Sash', you're powerless, and you're limited on ammo. I've got nothing holding me back_."

"Hmm," Sasha said thoughtfully, scooping up her thick brown hair in one fist. "Nothing 'cept your ego, anyway."

"_Sasha_!" Connie cried from her phone. "_This is serious! Real, serious talk_!"

"I'm completely serious." Sasha grinned at her mirror, twirling her hair into a thick, messy bun. Loose strands drifted around her cheeks and twisted around her ears. "Hawkeye could beat Speed up."

"_Wait_," Connie said, with his voice drawn out into a soft whine, "_which Hawkeye are we talking about_?"

"Kate Bishop," Sasha said, rolling her eyes as she began tossing her things into her bookbag. Math notebook, pencil case, lip-gloss, taser, Spanish folder, jackknife kit, a package of gum, and a pair of sneakers. "Duh. I mean, Clint Barton is a grown-ass man, so if I was talking about him—"

"_You'd go for Quicksilver instead of Speed_," Connie sighed. "_I get it_."

"Right!" Sasha zipped up her bag, and tossed a strap over her shoulder.

"_Didn't Kate Bishop and Speed have a thing_?"

"I dunno, Connie," Sasha said, scooping up her phone. "You're the comic expert here."

"_The only comic book I know extensively is Blue Beetle— Jaime Reyes's run, I mean, not the other guy_."

"The poor other guy," she lamented dryly "It's weird that your favorite superhero isn't even a speedster."

"_Blue Beetle is magic, Sasha_," Connie said breathlessly, and she laughed very loudly as she started from her room. "_And also, you just don't get many Latino superheroes, especially not at the quality of Jaime Reyes. You can borrow some of my comics, you know_."

"I'll pass," Sasha yawned. "Reading makes me hungry."

"Everything _makes you hungry_…"

"Well," Sasha laughed, passing by her father as she tried to get to the stove to retrieve a fistful of bacon. She turned toward the television as she began to munch eagerly, ducking her father's arm when he tried to pat her on the head. "That's true…" On the television, there was some weird shot of a pretty mangled street, like something straight out of an apocalypse movie. And then she read the caption beneath it.

"Um, Connie," Sasha said. "You watchin' the news?"

"_Nope_," Connie said. "_I'm still in my pajamas. Why_?"

"Chicago's getting beaten to shit by a bunch of giant robots," Sasha said, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of bacon. She whirled around to face her father. "Hey, daddy—"

"No crime fighting before school," her mother said suddenly from the table.

"Um, your name is not daddy," Sasha said, not even bothering to glance at her mother, because there was no winning with her. Connie snickered from the phone receiver. "Daddy, can Connie and I go to Chicago?"

"You're kidding," her mother said flatly.

Her father merely looked at her. Connie was quiet from the phone, and she could assume that he was already dressed and on his way. He had that much mastery over his super speed. "I don't suppose it'd do any harm," her father said slowly, his mustache stretching as he frowned.

"Sasha," her mother said. She was glancing between her daughter and the television, her lined face growing slightly distraught. "You'll miss school. And possibly get killed."

"Have you seen this girl shoot?" her father scoffed. "She'll be fine."

"Yeah!" Sasha chirped through a mouthful of bacon. "I'll be fine!"

"_School,_ Sasha," her mother sighed.

"It's not like it's _going_ anywhere!" Sasha cried, exasperated and irritated. Her mother was more or less okay with Sasha being a hero— called Freeshooter, actually, which was really cool, and she enjoyed it. But sometimes her mother just got really weird about it.

"Refrain from yelling at your mother," her father warned.

Sasha slumped in defeat, and nodded glumly. She popped her last piece of bacon between her teeth, wiping her fingers off on her jeans and unzipping her backpack. She was pretty much used to all this hero nonsense by now. She lived and breathed it, but her parents were a little reluctant to allow her to run around all across the country, fighting crime and risking her life. They allowed her a lot of freedom, though, which was a little astonishing all things considering, but they were pretty clear that this couldn't rule her life.

She was pulling her green, hooded cut off when Connie appeared very suddenly in her kitchen with nothing but a gust of wind as a forewarning. Sasha swallowed her bacon and kicked off her flats, swapping them for the pair of sneakers she'd stashed in her backpack, while Connie greeted her parents enthusiastically. By this point, no one was surprised with Connie's super speed. In fact, it could get kinda annoying. He never knocked anymore. He just showed up in a burst of speed, energy and wind pulsating around him, and Sasha felt the need to smack him every time.

"So," Connie said, wearing a gaudy green morph-suit, the kind that would cause him to be invisible in front of a green screen. His face was visible, though, and the head portion of the suit was gathered around his neck. He was also wearing a pair of black mesh shorts and sneakers over the skin-tight material. "Chicago. Giant robots. How game are you, Sash', because I'm up to whoopin' your—"

"Oh shut up, Connie," she said, catching her quiver as her father tossed it to her over the table. It was hanging near the back door, and her compactable bow was attached to it. "Just worry about whether or not you're strong enough to carry me all the way there."

"Please," Connie scoffed. "I can get us both there and back in an hour, easy."

"You willing to put money on that, boy?" Sasha's father asked, his lips quirking into a smile. Sasha giggled at the look that crossed Connie's face. She knew he'd learned by now to never gamble with her father, so this was pretty priceless.

"Um, no, sir," Connie squeaked. Sasha shoved her pack with all their emergency supplies— first aid, water, snacks— at him, and she strapped her holster to her waist. She couldn't imagine not having a contingency plan in case she ran out of arrows— it'd never happened, but she kept at least two or three additional guns on her, and an assortment of knives hidden in various places upon her person.

"Come _on_," Connie whined, bouncing so fast that he was basically vibrating in place, his tiny body a vague outline in against the wooden paneling of her kitchen. "You're so slow!"

"Mhm," Sasha hummed. "Not true, but okay." She tossed up her hood, and spun away from Connie, swooping down to kiss her father on the cheek. "Bye, daddy!"

"Be careful," her mother said. "And though I do not condone this whatsoever, I'd appreciate it if you were home for dinner."

"Yeah, yeah." Sasha waved at her offhandedly, and she hopped onto Connie's back. "Duh."

They had been fighting crime on and off for about… what, four years? Something like that. They had nothing better to do, and the thing was that they were kinda extraordinary. In their own dumb, oddball way. So they fought crime when they could, when they had the opportunity, or maybe they just sought it out to get a kick. They felt responsible for everything while living lives that allowed them to wash their hands of all responsibility. There were no repercussions to being a superhero. Only fun.

It took Connie a little over an hour to get to Chicago, but Sasha excused that because he had to carry her as well as some heavy equipment. She was totally used to the whole super-speed thing after five years, though it was a little bit asphyxiating, and blinding, and nauseating, and Connie had to pull over like, twice to allow Sasha to throw up, but yeah, whatever, she was totally used to it. Totally.

"Holy fuck," Connie blurted, dropping her on her ass in the midst of a busted, blazing Chicago street. There was an overturned car wheezing with breathless, hazy gasps as it was engulfed in flames. "Did you know it was this bad?"

"I saw this on TV for like, a minute, Frick." Sasha and Connie had come up with monikers one dull Saturday night after marathoning some old _Justice League: Unlimited_ episodes, and while she'd gotten Freeshooter, Connie had come up with _Friction_. He was totally a dork about it, too, and she'd forbidden him from coining the catchphrase, "What the frick?"

"Yeah, well, I ran half-way across the country on an empty stomach, so can I have some refuel?" Connie reached into the pack slung over his shoulder, and retrieved a chocolate bar. Sasha stared at it, and she felt a shudder of nausea as a side effect of latching onto Connie as he ran at the speed of sound. She was pretty sure science had just dropped the ball when it came to Connie, because she had no idea how she survived these crazy trips.

"Anyway," Connie said through a mouthful of chocolate, "I figure we could split the robots, maybe, since you've got all the explosives, and I've got all the speed— you got any self-detonating shit on you, by any chance?"

"I've got a grenade," Sasha said, snatching the piece of chocolate he offered out greedily. "But she's a special gal, and I don't think I can part with her."

"Not even for giant robots?" Connie asked, his voice rising in absolute disbelief.

"She's special!"

"You're crazy," Connie said, rolling his eyes as he scratched the stubble on his scalp. "Kay, fine, just use your arrows. Get up on top of a real tall building, and I'll distract 'em all, and then give you a signal to shoot."

"Sounds good," Sasha said, yanking her compactable bow and shaking it until it unfolded in her hand, springing into its delicately, lethally curved shape. "Don't get squished, Constantino."

"Shove an arrow up your vagina, Sash'," Connie snapped at her as she strolled with a certain degree of whimsy down the cracked, crumbling, candle wax streets, which melted and froze and melted and froze with every little skip and laugh and vulgarity that sprung from her at that moment. Connie never used to be so sensitive about his name, but she had to suppose he just got sick of her making fun of him for it.

Anyways, she found a good, sturdy fire escape, and she climbed onto it with little effort. She'd been doing this for years. Sasha was a _pro_, okay, she could jump fire escapes in her sleep if she had to. She listened to the sound of her sneakers as they collided with the rusted, dented metal, and smoke filled her mouth as she rose above the city's skyline, looking out into the fire and destruction that plagued Chicago's cityscape. She had to check to make sure her gear was all on right, and as she did, sitting down on the ledge of the building she'd just climbed, she heard someone clear his throat.

She blinked for a moment, and looked up. There were two guys standing right there, right in front of her, wearing kevlar and elbow pads, and Sasha just stared at them for a moment before bursting into laughter. Oh, vigilantism was so amazing! "No way!" she gasped, throwing her head back and cackling.

"Are you okay?" asked one of the boys carefully. He was holding a baseball bat with the type of support an old man would put on a cane.

"Yeah, yeah," she laughed, wiping her eyes, and whistling brightly. "Wow, I'm fine, I just can't believe…" She knew there were other superheroes in the world, but dumb vigilantes like her? They didn't pop up very often.

"Is that a fucking bow?" the other boy asked, sounding alarmed, and incredibly curious. "Like, Katniss Everdeen level shit?"

"I'm way better than Katniss," Sasha declared, blowing a piece of hair from her eyes. "But yeah, basically. What're you two doing up here?" She marched toward them, and eyed their belts, looking for loose candy bars that might happen to poke out of pockets. Connie had taken the pack with all the food in it, the piece of shit. "Got any food?"

"Um, no," said the scrawny, condescending one, taking a step back from her in mild irritation. "We don't. Who the fuck are you?"

"Freeshooter," Sasha chirped. "Who the fuck are you?"

The boy eyed her distrustfully, his shoulders squaring as the boy with the bat responded for him with a gentle smile. He, like Sasha, had his eyes bare with only a hood to shadow them. He had a warm face, freckles dancing in the brilliant morning sunlight, and his eyes reflecting all the sunlight with some strange, hopeful glimmer.

"This is Ricochet," said the boy. "And I'm… San. You can call me San."

"Cool," Sasha said. At that point, distant shouts were drifting from the street below, smoke and dust coughing up from the poor, pulverized road as a giant robot came sailing through the air and attaching itself to the tall glass building right across from the one Sasha, Ricochet, and San were standing on. It tilted its massive, demonic metal head toward them, and Sasha blinked rapidly as its gleaming eyes adjusted to lock on her. Big, and black, and glowing with embers that were flickering and fluttering rapidly around its gleaming face. Sasha took a step back in shock, her stomach lurching with fear. It was looking at her with the kind of intelligence of a wolf in a trap, the same pleading gaze of a dying, whining animal ready to snap and gnaw at anything and everything in order to get free or die trying.

"U-um…" Sasha stammered, taking another step back. The robot opened its giant maw, and fire poured from its razorblade teeth, gapped and knife-like, protruding from expertly formed steel lips. "Th-that robot is looking right at me, guys."

"No," said a tiny, vacant voice that drifted up from right beside Sasha. Sasha looked down, and squeaked in surprise when she saw that there was a girl standing right behind her, small and skinny and blonde, her round face lifted to stare at the monstrosity that clung to the slowly crumbling skyscraper just across the road. "She's looking at me."

"What?" Sasha said flatly. "Um, where did you come from?"

"She was here the whole time," San said softly.

Sasha could not tear her eyes away from the robot, so she just nodded in disbelief. "Okay, fine," she said. "Why is the robot looking at you, then?"

"I…" The tiny girl, who was wearing a dark cloak that covered the entirety of her skinny frame, looked away nervously. "Oh, I don't… I just _know_. I can tell she's looking at me, and… I think… she's alive."

"That robot?" Sasha uttered feebly. "Alive?"

"It's such a weak aura," the tiny girl murmured, closing her eyes and shaking her head furiously. Her blonde hair shuddered around her rosy cheeks, and her lips trembled a little. "I don't know how to _explain_ it properly. There is definitely life somewhere in there, but it's not… right. It's human, but it's… it's…"

"It's _human_?" Sasha choked.

The girl looked up at Sasha sharply, and she quickly laughed, throwing up her hands in a strange form of defeat. "Oh," said the girl, "I don't know, really, don't listen to me."

Sasha stood, stunned for a moment, but there was no time to dwell on the strange girl's words. The world seemed to be coming to an end all around them, crashing apart as the robot was attacked by a girl who came flying through the air as though someone had tossed her, her body curling as she kicked off the leg of the beastly robot, and tore at it with her bare hands. Sasha could hear the metal bend against her fingers, the soft screech of steel echoing across the cacophony of terror all around them.

"Whoa," Sasha murmured. She recognized the girl by her mask, which was something out of Buddhism that Sasha didn't really know. She knew that Chicago had its own heroes, and she was awed to see one up close, see the girl work at scaling the twitching, flailing, screeching beast that clicked and snarled, fire brimming from its steely lips as the girl tore a gap out of its kicking leg.

"Whoa," agreed Ricochet, staring at the girl with his mouth parted in awe. The robot began to wail, and it shook the girl off with a burst of fury. The girl went flying through the air, her body curling expertly, and Sasha cried out as she came rolling onto their roof without a hint of pain, without faltering, without even thinking, and she jumped to her feet. She was wearing a plaid uniform skirt, which was now slightly singed. There was smoke billowing from its darkened hem as she patted it out.

"That," Sasha said as the girl glanced at her through the heavy brow of her mask, "was _amazing_!"

The girl eyed her without a word, and then she spun around, the billowing fabric of her singed skirt catching in the wind. Her short, choppy black hair was twisting about her head, wayward and curling across the ebony and ivory of her intricately carved mask. And she dusted off her knuckles as she tucked her legs, her body curling with the anticipation of a mighty and impossible jump.

"Wait!" Ricochet cried. The girl froze. Her muscles were suddenly locked, and Sasha knew from her rigidness that she could never push off the ledge of the building now, not with her body so tight and stanch and suddenly enraged. She whirled to face Ricochet with her eyes flashing with the light of the sun and the light of the fire that had half-consumed the road below. Ricochet seemed to backtrack at the sight of her. "U-uh… hey…"

She said nothing. She simply stared.

"Aren't you Nio?" the little blonde girl asked suddenly, awed and excited. Nio. Right, that was the girl's moniker, right?

The girl nodded slowly, her mask bobbing against the smoke and the dust. Sasha glanced down the road, and spotted a giant naked man. _Hey_, she thought. _Wait, isn't that Rogue?_ She couldn't believe it. All these heroes in one place! It was so weird, because she'd never really entertained the thought of actually meeting other heroes before. It had always been just her and Connie.

"Nio," San said softly. Nio turned to him, and Sasha could sense pain in her eyes as they flickered between both boys. "Hey. You know who we are, right?"

"Dude," Ricochet hissed.

"Listen, it's no use hiding that we know," San sighed, shaking his head as he rested his bat against his shoulder. He lifted his head up, and he smiled at Nio. "Welcome back."

Nio stiffened, and she took a step back, her shiny black shoes scuffing against the ash-caked rooftop. "What are you doing?" she asked, finally speaking. Her voice was clipped and emotionless.

"Same as you," Ricochet said. He stood awkwardly, his head turned away so he didn't have to look at Nio directly. "You inspired us."

"I told you," the girl said, her voice going very dark. "I told you what I thought of vigilantism. I told you it was stupid, and you still did it. You're both idiots."

"You didn't actually mean any of that," Ricochet said slowly, his goggled eyes flickering to Nio's face, "did you?"

"I meant every word," she said icily.

"But you—" Ricochet sounded absolutely horrified, and San pressed a hand to his shoulder. As the freckled boy shook his head, Nio spun around.

"I meant it," said Nio, "I meant every word, because I don't think I'm doing any good. I'm not a hero. I'm strong. That's all I am, but it's just enough to keep me alive while I waste my life away being something that doesn't exist." She jumped up onto the raised edge of the building, and she raised her head high. "There are no heroes in this world."

She dove then, and the blonde girl beside Sasha gave a little shriek of objection, and Ricochet cried something against the wind, but the girl was gone. Sasha ran to the ledge and peered down, but Nio had not ended up a red, mangled splotch on the side of the road. She was running down the street, meeting up with a blond guy and pointing toward the fire robot.

"Holy shit," Sasha breathed. "That girl's got issues."

"Is she…?"

"Yeah, she's fine," Sasha said, whirling to face Ricochet and San. Ricochet looked ready to puke, while San was looking ready to faint. And the blonde girl was blinking between all of them, looking awkward and uncertain and out of place. "Anyone got any idea what's going on besides the whacky humans-are-robots thing?"

The blonde girl shrunk back, and Ricochet merely shrugged. San stood there. And Sasha sighed, because these people were clearly useless. "Okay," Sasha sighed. "Whatever. I'll figure it out." She glanced back down at the road, and saw Rogue standing not too far below, just a building or so away. He was boxing another robot. _That is the coolest thing I have ever seen_, Sasha thought as Rogue went through a wall of glass, taking out a massive chunk of the building right beside the one Sasha was standing on.

"They have a weak spot," said the little blonde girl suddenly. Sasha glanced at her. She was standing with her hands gathering a fist full of her dark cloak, wrapping it tighter around herself. "The back of their necks. If you hit them there, I think they'll shut down."

"Whoa, wait," Sasha said, blinking down at the girl. "Really?"

"Yes," the girl said. "I can tell that, at the very least."

"You're awesome," Sasha gasped, nearly grabbing the tiny girl to hug her. But Sasha had her bow in hand, and they were standing very close to the ledge of a very tall skyscraper. The girl smiled.

"I'm Vitae," she said, her voice shaky. "Um, it's not my name, but… oh!" The girl grabbed Sasha by the arm, and pointed below. A robot had gotten hold of a boy, a tiny looking thing with a white cloak, and Sasha could see its, metal fingers close tighter and tighter. "Oh my gosh, can you… can you do something?"

"Uh, yeah," Sasha said, yanking an arrow from her quiver. "Not a problem."

Sasha notched her arrow and brought the string taut, angling just right so it'd clip the fingers of the robot clutching the boy in white. She could see its fingers beginning to frost over, and the boy began to squirm. Sasha exhaled sharply, and she released the arrow, grinning with satisfaction as she hit the target with ease. Upon the arrow's impact, the boy was dropped, and Sasha listened with her expression slipping as he screamed. Vitae screamed beside her, clapping her hands over her mouth.

"Hey," Sasha gasped, halting the girl from moving any closer to the ledge. "Don't worry. My boy's got this."

Connie was already skidding through the streets, maneuvering through the cracks and the robots and the overturned cars— a streak of neon green in a smoky, grayscale world. And he caught the falling boy with great ease. Sasha grinned, and she began to follow the path she knew he'd take before his blur of a body pivoted. She tugged a grappling arrow from her quiver and notched it.

"Hey, fellas," Sasha said, never looking at the duo. "Let's have some fun!"

She released the arrow, and it colliding with the building beside them, a long cable connecting Sasha to the shattered, vaguely unstable structure. And she let herself swing from it, shrieking in delight as she was met with open air, her feet kicking wildly against the wind. She landed on the shoulder of Rogue, her feet slipping momentarily as she buckled, and she caught onto his twisted brown hair. He glanced at her, and she could almost see him frowning. She poked his cheek gently with her bow.

"Holy crap!" she cried, standing a little wobbly on her feet. "You're Rogue!"

The monster-boy grunted in reply. She could feel that grunt through her feet, vibrating through her knees and up into her chest and rattling her entire body. She cried out in alarm as he plucked her up by her hood. "Hey!" Sasha cried. "No, no! Put me down! I can help!"

He grunted again, this time louder, with irritation rattling through the miasma cloaking the morning air. The robot he'd been fighting was watching with vague interest, and it was creeping Sasha out. She dangled in midair, her feet kicking wildly at nothing, and she cursed very loudly as Rogue set her down on the sidewalk beside Connie. He was laughing at her, his head flung back. And the boy in white was simply standing beside him, looking a little shell-shocked and dazed.

"What a nasty piece of work," Sasha muttered as the giant man went at the giant robot again.

And Connie just laughed. They ducked as a shower of glass came raining from the sky where the robot and Rogue collided with another building, and Sasha and Connie both shielded the boy in white, much to his alarm. His glasses were askew as they dragged him into an alleyway by his arms, glancing back at the giants that were causing so much destruction to downtown Chicago.

"Are you okay, buddy?" Sasha asked the blond boy. He blinked at her with faintly glistening eyes, and he nodded mutely. His face was rather sallow, and his eyes were sunken in his skull, and he suddenly looked very skeletal and frail, like a child who was underfed and neglected. His blond hair was bobbing in a tiny ponytail at the nape of his neck as he tore away from them, struggling to stay on his feet.

"I'm…" he said, his voice trembling. He was shaking terribly, and he squeezed his eyes shut, swaying back and forth, back and forth, his quaking fingers pressing to his sweaty forehead. "F-fine…"

"Go on and puke," Sasha said gently. "I always do when Friction runs with me."

The boy shook his head, taking a tiny step forward, his boots scraping against pebbles and cracks in the pavement. "No," he murmured, still holding and shaking his head. "No, I—" He dropped to his knees, and Sasha stared as his hands clapped against the shattered street, and he heaved and coughed, his back arching and bile spewing from his lips. He shook and gasped, expelling whatever was in his stomach, and Connie grimaced beside Sasha, his gaze averting as Sasha contemplated comforting the poor boy.

"Is he okay?"

Sasha whirled around, and saw Vitae standing in the entrance of the alleyway, her watery blue eyes flashing between Connie and Sasha and the boy vomiting into the busted asphalt. San was standing behind her, eying them with a worried frown. Vitae came running up beside Sasha, her cloak fluttering back from her shoulders, and Sasha wanted to laugh as she noticed that the girl was wearing a pair of very baggy jeans that were cuffed and rolled so many times that they barely retained their original shape. She was also wearing a very long tee shirt that had been rolled a few times at the sleeves, and the bright, bulky letters that ran boldly across its front read, **TAKE A HIT**.

"He'll be fine," Sasha said, tugging her hood back over her head. It wilted miserably around her scraggly hair, and she blew her bangs from her eyes. "It's just the speed that got to him. Co— Friction doesn't really know how to not jostle around precious cargo when he runs."

Vitae bent down beside the softly heaving boy, and she rested her hand his back. He flinched away from her, falling backwards onto his elbows, and Sasha saw, alarmed, that there were tear tracks glistening on his cheeks. The run with Connie was certainly nauseating, but Sasha had never cried before. The boy looked absolutely traumatized, his lips wet and his expression pained and his eyes unfocused. Vitae knelt on the ground, her dark cloak pooling around her, and Sasha saw that her expression looked pained too.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I… I can't help you, I'm so sorry…"

"What do you mean?" San asked, walking toward them with his bat slung across his shoulders. "You can alleviate pain, right? Cure sickness?" His hood had fallen away, likely in the jump between the roof and the ground, and Sasha saw his dark hair was a mess around his warm, freckled face. And he looked incredibly concerned, his lips pressed together thinly as he stared at the blond boy struggling on the ground.

"I _can_," Vitae said, shaking her head furiously. "I mean, I usually can! But… but he's… he's got nothing, no life, no aura, not even a trace, and I can't help him if he's not al—" She paused, and looked down at the boy, who stared at her with horror dawning on his face. Sasha blinked rapidly. _Alive,_ Vitae was going to say. She couldn't help the boy if he wasn't _alive_. "There must be something messing with my ability."

"What's your name?" the blond boy asked, his voice suddenly very clear. He sat up straight, his hollow gaze becoming focused.

"Vitae," she said, edging a little closer to him. She picked up the hem of her cloak, and wiped at the corner of his lips. At first, he recoiled from her touch, his body curling in disgust. And Vitae winced as well, pulling back and glancing around desperately, as if one of them could help her. But Sasha was suddenly very aware of how strange this boy in white was, and she frowned at Connie. He didn't seem to notice.

The blond boy looked up at Vitae, his eyes growing wide. "Wait…" he said breathlessly. He reached out and snatched Vitae's wrist, pulling her hand to his cheek until her knuckles grazed his skin. His eyes flashed with alarm, and he choked on an incredulous laugh. "H-holy shit…"

"Um…" Vitae pulled back, looking a little uncertain. "We should get you to a doctor. Someone who can actually help you, unlike me—"

"No," the blond by said. "You helped. A lot. Thank you so much." He pushed himself to his feet, still pressing Vitae's hand to his cheek. "Seriously, thanks."

"I didn't do anything," Vitae said weakly. "I can't."

He shook his head, and dropped her hand. "That's _exactly_ why you helped," he said, looking at her with large, excited eyes.

"So who are you?" Connie asked suddenly. He was clearly growing impatient, bouncing idly on his feet. Except he was vibrating in place. Typical.

"Um, Cicero," the boy said, blinking around as he wiped at his eyes furiously. "Who… are you two?" He looked pointedly at Sasha and Connie.

"Freeshooter," Sasha piped up. "And he's Friction. We're kinda a team."

"Right…" Cicero nodded.

"Cicero," Connie said suddenly, his eyes widening. "Whoa. Wait. You're the telepath that made that guy shoot himself!"

Cicero stood frozen for a moment, and he blinked at Connie with his glasses slipping down tear-slickened nose. The tiny boy did not speak, but his horror was written across his face. And Sasha elbowed Connie very hard in the ribs, stunned by how insensitive he could be without really meaning to. San cleared his throat, pushing himself further into the alley until he was at the very center of the four of them.

"You're a mindreader, right?" San asked, looking at Cicero with his expression cautious and concerned, his lips pressed together thinly. Cicero nodded slowly, staring at San with a furrowing brow. "I'm sorry, then. It must be hard to think straight with all of us cluttering your mind at once."

"No," Cicero said. He shook his head fast, his glasses slipping against his nose. "No, actually it's… weird, but I can barely catch a signal from any of you— well, except for Connie."

"What?" Connie blurted. "Dude, how do you know my—?"

"Sorry," Cicero gasped, biting his lip nervously. "I'm really sorry, your mind is just _really _loud."

Sasha snorted. "Just his mind?" she asked, laughing very hard when he shoved her.

Cicero smiled mildly. "Your frequency is almost nonexistent compared to his," he said. "But it's still there, at least." He waved at San and Vitae, who stood confusedly beside each other. "San's hard to hear, and Vitae's mind isn't reachable to me. Which is why I was so surprised when you touched me, by the way, because… usually, when I touch someone, their mind overwhelms me, and mine… mine overwhelms theirs too. It's terrible, but… with you, nothing happened." He looked so utterly relieved that Sasha thought he was going to begin to cry.

"Oh," Vitae said softly. "Oh, wow…"

Cicero stared at her, and then he turned away. "And," he said softly, "by the way, Connie, yeah. I was the one who made that guy shoot himself." He said it very casually now, but Sasha could sense that he was very uncomfortable with the fact. "I had no idea that he'd do it, but it doesn't make me any less responsible."

"Oh," Connie said, his voice heightening a little in pitch. "Oh. Um, sorry I asked, I mean…"

"It's fine."

_No it's not_, Sasha thought as Cicero turned to San. He threw a glance at her, but said nothing. _Oh shit, did he hear that?_ "I don't know if any of us will be much help out there— we're mostly just in the way, honestly. But if we get a higher view…"

San smiled gently. "I understand," he said.

Sasha was not happy that she had to scale another fire escape. Truthfully, this day was getting more and more bewildering, and the confusion was universal. Upon questioning, Cicero knew nothing more than them— other than the confirmation of Vitae's previous enigmatic statement. The robots were sentient. They were alive. And, perhaps, they were human. "Or at least," Cicero said, "that's how it appears."

"But how is that possible?" Sasha asked, watching as a blonde girl— Lionheart, Cicero informed them— caught one of the robots by its ear, and froze its entire neck. Sasha watched gleefully as the metal surround its massive metal nape froze, the plating shuddering and screeching as the wires coiling beneath the shifting metal was encased in ice.

"I don't know," Cicero said with a sigh, as San jumped up on the ledge. Ricochet was somewhere below, but San admitted that he wasn't too concerned, because Ricochet had good luck.

"Hey, can you shoot an arrow at that GFR over there?" San pointed at Lionheart's catch, which was alarmingly unperturbed by the ice licking up its jaw line. Lionheart was looking rather irritated, clinging to the robot with various icicles appearing and dispersing all across the plated face of the beast. "I've got an idea."

"Sure," Sasha said, yanking out a grappling arrow from her quiver. She notched it, and squinted for a moment before taking aim, and drawing her string back. She released the arrow, and smiled in satisfaction as it sailed through the air, and hit its target dead on. A cable extended from Sasha to the shoulder of the GFR Lionheart was attempting to take down, and she plucked it to make sure it was sturdy. "There you go. Don't fall, or anything, kay?"

"I'll be fine," San said, tossing his baseball bat over the cable. Sasha realized he intended to use her cable as a zip-line. "I take gymnastics!"

He kicked off the ledge, and Sasha buckled a little as his weight pulled the cable taut, and nearly sent her stumbling into the chasm between buildings. Sasha watched as he managed to flip right off the cable, and steady himself easily on the gleaming metal shoulder of the GFR. Amazing. Sasha could do that. Totally.

"Um, okay…" Cicero said slowly. "Anyway, like I was saying, I don't know exactly _how_ it's possible that the robots are sentient— it's weird, but I can tell by the… the way they move. And act. The way their eyes are."

Sasha wanted to call bullshit. She wanted to tell Cicero that there was no way the robots could be alive— but Sasha knew that there were a lot of things in the world that she'd never be able to understand. Connie had once told her what had happened to him that had triggered his super speed. He told her about the nurse named Ilse who had injected something into his IV drip, and he told her about his legitimate Jesus Christ experience in which he died and resurrected in such a glorious fashion that he was cured of being paraplegic. So she couldn't be surprised by much anymore, really— she was a fucking superhero! She could shoot better than half Olympic gold medalists! She was the Legolas of the modern world, with all the dumb fancy shit he pulls in the movies.

And there was weirder shit out there than giant sentient robots.

"So," Sasha said, "the problem now isn't really how, exactly, but _why_."

Cicero nodded vacantly, his large blue eyes surveying the destruction around them. Smoke and dust billowed from the destruction below, and firelight reflected off the hazy lenses of his glasses. "Exactly," he said softly. Vitae stood beside him, tugging the dark cloak further around her skinny frame.

"Who," she whispered. "Who as well. Who would want to cause this much… this much…?"

"Chaos," Cicero said. He raised his chin high, and his head bent backwards toward the sky. Sasha noticed San working with Lionheart to take down a robot, his wooden baseball bat splintering as he stabbed it into the fracturing nape of the monster's neck. Sasha's eyes widened, and she felt the cable that was still firmly attached to her yank her forward. She severed it on pure instinct, stumbling backwards from the edge of the roof as the robot went crumpling to the ground like a massive marionette whose invisible tethers had been unbound.

Sasha tore another grappling arrow from her quiver, notching it and taking aim fast. She drew the bowstring back, her teeth gritting as she struggled to find a target that was not moving, and she released hastily, her sneakers squeaking against the battered rooftop as she let the arrow tug her from the ledge and fling her into the air. Cicero cried out to her, but she did not hear him, because the wind was screaming at her and laughing at her, telling her she was just a foolish little girl, and she decided, fuck the wind, because she didn't need it to be able to do her job.

She caught San as he stumbled from the collapsing robot, her fingernails digging into the thick, padded fabric of his Kevlar vest, and they both screamed in absolute terror as the cable holding them shuddered, and they went skidding across the busted, torn up road. Sasha's bare arms tore against the cracked, porous asphalt. She lay on her stomach for a moment, stunned and blinded by the dust that had been kicked up upon her and San's descent. She coughed, blinking away tears, and she cried out in shock as San tackled her, pinning her to the street as he shielded her body with his own. She felt his arms fall over her head, and the earth rattled with the tremor of a giant body crashing and crushing and cracking its surface.

San helped her to sit upright as she continued to cough into her bloody hands, blinking into the thick, hot dust and smoke that had consumed them in mere moments. It occurred to Sasha that this was pretty weird, how she and this random dude were just protecting each other even though they'd only just met like, what, twenty minutes ago? But Sasha didn't care much at that point, and clearly San didn't either. He held her arms gingerly as he shouted above the din, "Can you stand?"

"Uh…" Sasha pushed herself to her feet, and she gave a strained, raspy laugh. "I guess so!"

They pulled each other out of the cloud of dust that plagued the entirety of that torn up road, coughing and teary eyed as they blindly collapsed at an abandoned corner, heaving clean, chilly air. San glanced down at her, all freckled and ashes and a toothy white grin, and he laughed.

"Thanks," he said, his voice very coarse from inhaling ash and dust. His hair had gone gray with particles gone adrift. "You're a really good shot, you know that?"

"I told you," she said. She was laughing and coughing, ignoring the terrible burning sensation that stole her biceps. She was still clutching her bow, somehow, and her knuckles had turned white from holding it so tightly. Tears were streaking hotly against her cheeks, and she wondered if there was a camera somewhere picking up her every move, and showing her parents just how dangerous vigilantism truly was. "People like us, we've gotta be the best at what we're good at if we're gonna be heroes, right?"

San stared at her for a moment, and he nodded. He then offered to wrap up her arms, because he had gauze, and she asked him if he had anything to eat instead. He just laughed, and took that as a positive reply, because he ended up bandaging her pretty damn well.

"So you're from Oregon?" Marco asked. His name was Marco. He told her that while he told her not to look as he wiped the pebbles out from her skinned upper arms. "My mom's there right now."

"Oh, really?" Sasha was drumming on her knee impatiently, listening to the sounds of shouts and crashing from the street right beside them. Connie went skidding past, and he paused to look at her. She shot him a thumbs up, and he shrugged and kept going on with wherever he was headed. "It's nothing special."

"Oh, don't say that," Marco said. "Everyone says that about where they're from, but it's such a terrible lie, don't you think?"

Sasha sat, her back pressed against some scummy building wall, her arms bleeding profusely from botching up a grappling job, and she blinked confusedly. Was she lying? It hadn't even occurred to her. Did she really hate Oregon, or was she just saying that because she was sick of the same trees and grass and fissures in the sidewalks that she saw every day of her life?

"Well, okay," Sasha said, glancing at his dirt-caked face. His eyes were glowing with warmth, and his skin seemed to glow just as warmly beneath all the soot and grime. "Don't you hate Chicago, though?"

"Well, maybe sometimes," Marco said quietly, glancing out into the street. Lionheart was coming toward them, looking a little agitated. "But I'm not actually from Chicago."

"Where are you from?" Sasha asked curiously as he pinned her bandages into place. He smiled brightly.

"Oh, way up east," he said with a shaky laugh. "I moved here three years ago, but the east coast is always gonna be my home. Trust me, when you move away from Oregon, you'll miss it. You'll wish you didn't take your time there for granted."

"Nah," Sasha said. She stood up, and dusted herself off. "When I leave home, I'm not gonna look back. There's no real use in it, y'know. I've never been nostalgic, so I can't imagine missing what I never cared for." She examined her bowstring, and frowned. "If this is busted, I'm gonna scream."

"Hi, Annie," Marco said. The tiny blonde girl glanced between him and Sasha, and then she shoved her hands into the pocket of her torn, blood stained gray hoodie. "You okay from the fall?"

"Fine," she said. Her voice was much higher than Sasha had expected it to be, the kind of dull, but sweet sound that came out of a cell phone when asking for directions. "Ricochet almost split his head open a few minutes ago. You should control that."

Marco gave a short, lofty sigh. "I would if I could," he said, his voice lingering in a soft whine. "He's so high maintenance, I can't even leave him alone for fifteen minutes."

Annie shrugged. Marco smiled at her warmly, and nodded. "Thanks," he said, jogging into the road. "See you later, Sasha!"

"It's Freeshooter to you, mister!" Sasha cried. She stood awkwardly for a moment, meeting Annie's eye. She merely stared blankly back. "Hi."

Annie continued to stare at Sasha, her eyes flicking for a moment as if assessing her height and build. She then turned away. "Armin wants you over by Mikasa."

"Um, what?" Sasha asked weakly. "Who?"

Annie exhaled sharply. "Cicero and Nio," she corrected herself.

"Oh!" Sasha recalled Nio from the rooftop, her intricately carve mask glinting dangerously in the mid-morning sunlight. Sasha took a step out into the dusty road, wiping her eyes on her reddening bandage. "Okay, I'll—"

A mighty crash swept both Sasha and Annie off their feet, and they collided for a moment, landing on the sidewalk in a tangle of limbs. Annie's skin was bitterly cold, and Sasha shrieked as she was shoved off the tiny girl's lap. Annie's blackened fingers had brushed Sasha's knuckles, and Sasha saw little frames of frost crawling across the white glow of her bones protruding through her skin.

"Um," Sasha choked as the smoke cleared around them. Another robot had crumpled to the ground, twitching feebly as metal screamed and hissed, caving in on itself as a winged man kicked off the spitting, creaking pile of steel, and left a massive dent in the robot and the road. He spared them a glance, and his eyes narrowed a little as his stained glass wings shimmered in the flickering rays of sunshine soaking through smog. "Holy crap."

"That's two," Annie said, pushing herself to her feet. Her clothes were utterly shredded.

"Cicero says they're sentient…" Sasha said softly. "What if that's true? Aren't we killing them, then?"

Annie stared ahead of her at the pile of steaming metal, and the armored robot coughed a bit of smoke in its last breath. Freiheit hovered for a moment, watching them, before another winged hero came swooping down, shrieking in delight. Their wings were metal plated, sleek and steely in comparison to the glassy color of Freiheit's. Sasha was pretty damn sure by the goggles and the crazed grin that this was Polymath.

"THIS IS AMAZING!" Polymath cried, their wings retracting as they landed beside the steaming, hissing robot corpses. "I designed something _just_ like this when I was going for my Master's, but far less advanced! Hey, Freiheit, can you—?"

"No," said Freiheit. His body curled momentarily against a current of wind, and then he shot upward, his glittering wings folding and clinking as though truly glass, and truly defying all sense of gravity.

"Yeesh," Polymath laughed, pushing their hair from their face. They glanced at Sasha and Annie, and they waved excitedly. "Hey, there! You guys wanna help me analyze—"

"No," said Annie, strolling past Polymath.

"Whoa there, missy," Polymath said, sounding a little awkward. "You're in big trouble, you know."

"Take it up with Nio," Annie said. "It was her idea."

"Hey!" Polymath shouted after the blonde girl. "Don't throw your siblings under the bus!"

Annie tossed up her arms into a careless shrug. "They're not my siblings." She walked away without another word, joining up with a very tall boy.

Polymath didn't seem to care what Annie had said, though, because they'd reached out to touch the twisted remains of one the robots, and recoiled with a shrill cry. "Hot!" they gasped, shaking their hands out into the air. "Wow, that needs a caution sign, yee—" They paused, and tilted their head upward as the road began to tremble. Rogue had crouched down beside them both, his massive finger brushing against Polymath's head. He rubbed their hair very gently, and they broke into a fit of giggles, clapping their palm against Rogue's bulky knuckle. "Oh, I'm _fine_, you big dummy. What about you? Feeling weak yet?"

Rogue moaned, his skinless mouth parting. And Polymath merely laughed, patting his hand gently. "I'll cut you out, kay?"

Rogue let out another moan, and he shook his head furiously. Polymath scowled up at him. "Excuse me," they said, "but that's enough crimefighting for today, don't you think?"

Rogue shook his head, a mighty grumble leaving his awkwardly shaped mouth, and it sounded like a whine. Polymath sighed, and threw their arm out toward the end of the road. "Look, there's nothing left for you to fight!" Polymath shook their head. "Unless you wanna carry these things for me—" They paused, and scowled as the giant man collapsed into the street, skin beginning to decompose fast in a burst of steam. And then they smirked. "Sucker."

"Um," Sasha said. "Is he okay?"

"Probably," Polymath said, pulling out a device from one of their many pouches. Their entire outfit seemed to be made of little utility belts, and it was a little uncanny. "Can you go check on him for me, though? If he's still stuck inside Rogue's neck, that'll be a problem."

"Okay…" Sasha said, drifting slowly toward the giant steaming mass of decomposing flesh. All her instincts were telling her to book it the fuck out of there. She coughed a little as she fought through the heat, her eyes burning as she stumbled over a deteriorating shoulder bone, and found herself colliding right into a tiny blonde boy.

"Sasha!" Armin cried, his arms locked around the shoulders of a very naked boy. Sasha squinted through the steam, and she fought down her own laughter. The boy's arms were consumed by red pulsating veins that attached themselves to the naked boy's very pores. It was like Rogue's decaying body was trying to devour the poor boy, and no matter what Armin did, the boy stayed rooted in the pile of steaming nerves that was the nape of Rogue's neck. "He's still awake, and I can't… I can't pull him out of here, can you…?"

Sasha bent down, her sneakers crushing massive bones and sinking into squishy, melting flesh, and she grabbed the boy around his torso. He tilted his head back, and Sasha saw that there were veins attached to the skin beneath his eyes, strings of pink, twisted nerves protruding from his skin. Perhaps it had simply grown there, festered like a weed and extended until an entire body formed around the glossy, thundering system of interworking veins.

"Is he okay?" Sasha choked on steam, the boy's head lolling onto her shoulder.

"I don't know," Armin said. He looked frantic, and she could not see his eyes because the lenses of his glasses had gone foggy. "I don't… he's being absorbed by his power, and I can't… I can't…" Armin let go of Eren with a strangled shout of frustration. His knees collided with the mush that once was Rogue's scalp. Sasha felt the nerves imbedded in the boy as they tugged at him. She could practically feel them beckoning him to melt into some rotting, melting corpse, and she gritted her teeth as she dug her nails into the boy's chest and yanked at him until she felt the veins and the muscles give a little.

"Wait," Armin said, "you're getting him. Keep pulling, okay?"

"It's kinda hard to—" she hissed, adjusting her grip on the boy's body. She was thankful for her upper body strength at that moment, because as she gained a better position, her footing stabilizing, she managed to pull the boy further from his fleshy tomb. She felt an arm reach behind her head, and she blinked as she heard her quiver click at the sound of an arrow being unfastened, and she stared in horror as Armin clutched one of her acutely sharpened, marked red for safety arrowheads, and took a brilliant stab at the drumming mass of nerves encompassing the boy's left arm. And the boy screamed.

Sasha had shot, killed, gutted, and carved up too many animals to count. She'd skinned them, ate them, made them into rugs— the smell of decaying flesh as all too familiar to her, and it probably clung to her like a stigma. But she'd never experienced anything quite so jarring as holding this boy steady as Armin sawed away at the overlapping tendrils of very alive, pulsing nerves that latched onto his forearm. He was screaming so loudly in her ear that she could not hear anything but his voice, pitchy and unsteady as it wailed and spat and cursed at her and Armin and there was something about his legs, and his father, and it was all nothing but gibberish. Armin's hands were dark with blood, his face smeared crimson and black, steaming blood and char licking at his cheeks. He'd pushed his glasses up onto his head in order to see clearer, and the nerves all seemed to snap at once, recoiling from the boy's stump of an arm as Armin reached over and began to slice through the cords of veins that gnawed at the boy's right arm.

His voice didn't fail him until Sasha's arrow cut through the last of the tethers holding him in the skeletal corpse of Rogue, and she finally managed to drag him out of the trap of nerves. He appeared half awake, his eyes open and glazed as he stared at the sky. Armin had torn off his white cloak, which was now sort of grayish and tattered, and he threw it over the naked boy's shoulders.

"Eren," Armin gasped, tugging the glove off his left hand and pressing a hand to Eren's sweaty forehead. The boy said nothing more, but his eyes were beseeching. And then Eren's eyes snapped open wide, and he lurched forward. Armin pushed him back. "Eren, calm down. You need to rest, okay? You were in Rogue for way too long."

"Yeah, yeah…" the boy grumbled, glancing down at his lap. Armin's cloak was a little too short, so Eren pulled his knees up and hugged them to his chest. "I had a spare set of clothes in my backpack."

Armin shook his head. "Sorry," he said weakly. "I don't know where it went."

"Wh—" Eren's eyes drooped, and he swayed in place. "Whatever… did we win…?"

Armin paused. He glanced at Sasha, her blinked at him with wide eyes. They both looked around, at the shattered buildings, at the cracked, busted, overturned road, at the pile of three robots gathered only a few yards away, and at the smoke billowing from so many points across the chilly city that it had turned the clear morning sky a dull, dusty gray.

"Yeah," Armin said, his voice quiet. Sasha could almost taste his bitterness. "Yeah, we won…"

* * *

_Personally one of my least favorite chapters, solely because I realized about... halfway through, just about, that Sasha was a poor choice in narration for this particular battle. I did my best, but I hate rewriting, so I wasn't going to change anything I already wrote. Plus, I love Sasha, and this is the only chapter of hers I've written thus far._

_Also, the way I wrote the robots was, um... strange. I wanted them to be very creepy! Almost... unreal, you could say?_


	12. humility conquers pride

_**humilitas occidit superbiam**_

**London, England**

_a.d. vi Idus Octobres, 2677 A.U.C._

The french fries were steaming profusely inside their little newspaper cone, fat and salted and a bright golden brown. Eren Jaeger sat happily on the steps overlooking the Tower of London, pigeons waddling a step or two away, their little heads bobbing as they eyed his freshly fried potato slices with envy. The wind picked up around him, tussling his hair and his faded green hoodie, and it kissed his ears bright red with the bitterness of the oncoming winter. He chewed thoughtfully on a fry, and then offered the cone to Levi.

The man glanced at him with his blue eyes darkened by his usual gloom, but Eren smiled weakly, and Levi sighed. Eren had come to the conclusion that Levi really liked kids. If Eren were just slightly older, Levi probably would have flipped him right over the rail and into the grassy grounds of the Tower before them.

"This is unsanitary," Levi told Eren. He sat on the steps beside him anyway, and stuck the fry between his lips as though it was a cigarette. Eren had forbidden him from smoking on the mission, and Levi had told him that he would drop him off on the iceberg that sunk the Titanic if he didn't shut his fucking mouth. Still, he hadn't actually tried smoking yet, so maybe he'd be mindful.

"It's pretty cool, though," Eren said, looking over at the ancient tower that stood stolidly across from them, a relic of simpler times and simpler minds. "Armin'd love it."

Levi grunted in response. They'd been assigned this mission for about a week now, and it was still a struggle to get Levi to do anything but glance at him somberly, or grunt, or make short monotone remarks. Eren had asked Mikasa how to approach Levi, but Mikasa had merely told him to kick Levi in the balls, and that was certainly not something Eren intended to do, like, ever, so he was at his wit's end.

After they'd defeated the giant fucking robots, or GFR as Reiner had dubbed them, Armin had taken great care to make them all invisible before anyone showed up to bother them about… well, the collateral damage. Apparently there had been no casualties, which was amazing, but strange. And now they'd all been thrust into public spotlight more so than ever. Polymath and Rogue were already pretty popular, but now Eren saw his monstrous face on tee shirts when he passed street vendors, and he was a little disturbed to find that Mikasa's Nio mask had been given similar treatment. Eren told her to march up to venders trying to make a profit on what she herself had admitted to be the only real tie she had left to her mother and heritage, but she refused. She didn't care, she said. It didn't concern him even if she did.

It was absolutely infuriating. Armin didn't get that treatment, because no one had ever really seen his face, and they were all rather glad for it. Armin's power was a little too volatile for anyone to handle, so it was probably best if no one focused too much on how undoubtedly dangerous he could be. _We're all dangerous,_ Eren thought, munching on another fry. _Why, though? Why were we chosen to be this way?_

Since the Chicago incident, their little team had grown significantly in size. For one thing, everyone who'd been at the institution was now accounted for as far as Eren could tell. In fact, two extra kids showed up out of the blue, Christa and Ymir, whom Eren had never met previous to Chicago. Ymir hadn't even participated in the fighting. She just appeared drowsily from the back of Hange's jet when they had all been on their way home, blinking at them and laughing at their disheveled appearances. She and Christa had reunited rather excitedly, and Eren had wondered what reuniting with Armin and Mikasa might have been like if Eren hadn't temporarily died.

"Erwin Smith, Augur," Erwin had introduced a week previous. "Levi, Freiheit. Hange Zoë, Polymath. Eren Jaeger, Rogue. Mikasa Ackerman, Nio. Armin Arlelt, Cicero. Annie Leonhardt, Lionheart." Eren had elbowed Annie at that to force her to pay attention, but she'd merely shoved him into Armin in retaliation. She was playing with her cell phone, which had been a gift from Hange that all the new kids had received. "Reiner Braun, Brawn. Bertholdt Hoover, Skinner. Christa Lenz, Vitae. Jean Kirschstein, Ricochet. Marco Bodt, San. Constantino—"

"It's _Connie,_" the bald boy blurted from the holographic computer screen. Unfortunately, they were all a little too far away from each other to have an official meeting face to face, so anyone who did not accompany Hange to Manhattan was only present via skype. "Please, please change it. I didn't write that down."

"I did," Sasha chirped from somewhere beyond Connie's camera. The warm skinned boy glared at her, and his nose scrunched up in disgust.

Erwin gave a short nod. "Consider it changed," he said. "Connie Springer, Friction. Does that sound right to you?"

"Yeah," Connie said, nodding eagerly. "Yeah, that's right."

"Sasha Braus, Freeshooter," Erwin continued. "And Ymir."

Ymir lifted one dark, freckled arm, raising it level as she pointed at Erwin with nothing but her forefinger and her thumb extended. She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and winked as she gave her faux-gun of a hand a little jerk— _click-click_— and she shot Erwin dead with a wink and a laugh. Christa stood quietly beside her, still wearing that god awful shirt that Jean Kirschstein had given to her that boldly proclaimed, **TAKE A HIT**. Levi had actually chuckled when he'd seen the baggy, worn out shirt, which was a testament to how fucking ridiculous it was.

"Where's this Marco kid?" Ymir asked, looking pointedly at Jean's face floating on its own solitary screen. Her eyes were narrowed, as they tended to be whenever she decided to speak, and she folded her bare arms across her chest.

"He's here," Jean said, glancing away from the camera with a frown. "He's doing homework."

"Wow," Sasha said, sticking her head into the frame of Connie's recording. "Lame!"

"Yeah, I know, right?" Jean rolled his eyes. "How much can a person write about "Half-Hanged Mary", anyway?"

"I don't think I need to remind you," came Marco's quiet voice, "that you're failing English, right?"

"Okay, shut up and go back to your goddamn witch," Jean said dully, scowling away from the camera.

"If you _read _the poem," Marco said, "then you'd know that Mary was not, in fact, a witch. But they hung her anyway."

_What're they talking about? _Eren asked Armin. The boy had been focused on Ymir, his eyes watching the freckled girl's expression with a very pensive frown.

_What?_ Armin didn't tear his gaze away from Ymir. _Half-Hanged Mary? It's a poem about a woman who was hanged for witchcraft, but incorrectly. She ended up hanging from a tree for hours and hours until the sun came up, and the townspeople found her still alive, and cut her down_.

_Sounds dumb_, Eren said. _Can I read it on your gloves?_

_Look it up on Google, or something, Eren, holy shit_. Armin actually shot Eren a glare, as if he was appalled by the notion of anyone using his magical literature gloves for the purpose of actually reading literature.

"So, hey," Reiner said. "Why doesn't Ymir get a hero name?"

"Because it's dumb," Ymir said.

"You're using your last name, Reiner," Christa pointed out.

Reiner opened his mouth. And then he coughed, and averted his gaze. "Nah," he said. "It's spelled differently."

"You know how to spell?" Annie asked in her perfectly sweet, perfectly dead voice.

The entire room had burst into shrill laughter, even Annie, even Mikasa, even Christa, even Bertholdt, and even Marco's voice from somewhere beyond a camera in Chicago rung noisily throughout Hange's "office". Their office was basically like a secret laboratory, and it was pretty damn cool with all the holographic tech they'd installed. And it was shiny.

"Okay, settle down," Erwin said. By that point, Reiner was laughing the loudest. "We've got some news. Hange managed to dig up some information from the facility's database, and you all need to be attentive when they speak to you."

"Um," Connie said, his hand rising weakly on his screen. "Are we gonna get quizzed on this?"

"If I say no," Erwin said, his eyes moving to the screen that read Salem, Oregon, "will you pay attention?"

"Um…" Connie smiled. "Yeah, totally."

"He's lying," Sasha called. She was no longer on screen, but she could be heard shuffling in the background.

"Then yes, Connie, you will be quizzed," Erwin said.

"_What_?" Connie's large brown eyes flashed with terror. "Sasha!"

_Is he serious?_ Eren asked through the mindlink. Armin glanced at him, and smiled weakly.

_Probably_, he said.

_Your dad's got a sick sense of humor,_ Eren said. Armin stiffened at the remark, and he looked at Eren sharply.

_Eren, how many times do I have to tell you that he's _not_ my_—

"Okie dokie, so," Hange said, strolling up beside Erwin, "basically, I stumbled on the most juicy of conspiracy theories, boy oh boy. Like, this stuff is whack."

"Whack," Levi repeated. "What decade are you living in, shitty glasses?"

"The kind that has space colonization," Hange replied. "Anyways, basically I found out a lot of stuff about people we knew were in deep with this institution bullshit, and people we'd never ever imagine in the history of ever getting involved in something so crazy. It's so amazing!"

"Cut to the point," Levi sighed.

"Well," Hange said, smiling brightly. "First of all, we're going to split everyone into squads. We're going to attempt a three part mission simultaneously— meaning it might get a little tough. So any of you who want to back out, say so now."

No one had said anything. And so, Hange had grinned, and clasped their hands together excitedly.

"Great!" they cried. "So, Alpha Squad…"

Eren and Levi sat quietly on the steps overlooking the London Tower. Pigeons bobbed their heads wildly, picking up scraps of discarded Fish and Chips from the faded gray stones. Eren thought that maybe this mission would turn out okay. After all, Levi wasn't exactly someone to trifle with. He'd taken down a giant fucking robot all by himself. A robot that Eren had fought as _Rogue_, and been unable to take down. It was very clear that messing with Levi was probably some form of suicide.

"It's a lot nicer here than in New York," Eren admitted.

"Anywhere is better than New York," Levi replied. He was on his phone, frowning at the screen as though he wasn't quite sure what to make of it. "You should check your blood, or whatever."

"I checked it before we left," Eren said. He sighed, and stared down at his fries. They'd only been in London for about half an hour, and the anxiety was killing him. He didn't particularly want this mission, despite all his curiosity, all his desperation for answers. Maybe it'd be better if he just forgot all about it and went home, back to Hange and stability and love. "How do your wings work?"

Levi looked at him. It was the kind of sharp, disbelieving look a teenager might give a small child. "What do you mean?" he asked slowly.

"I mean," Eren sighed, "like, they're a part of your skin, right? They're a tattoo, but then they're like… glass, or something, and but none of the glass is connected. How the hell do you maintain flight with wings like that?"

Levi simply stared, as though he could not fathom Eren's interest in something so silly, so trivial, so unimportant to the greater picture. The circles under his eyes were illuminated by the peeking of the setting sun behind a grand cover of gray clouds. "How do you become a fifteen meter beast by biting your fucking hand, kid?"

Eren sat, taken aback, and he blinked rapidly. "I… don't really…" He sighed, and grimaced at the empty newspaper cone. "Okay, point taken. But, like… you said you remembered the institute, and I just thought…"

"Why do you call it that?" Levi asked suddenly.

Eren glanced at the man, who looked very irritated with little cause to be so. "Call it what?" he asked. "The institution?"

"Yeah, both," said Levi. "Erwin and I always called it the facility, but all you kids call it an institute, like you went there to learn something."

"We did go to school there," Eren said slowly. "But it was really stuffy, and we all hated it."

"Well, no shit."

Eren looked away. Levi was difficult to talk to. He couldn't quite hold a conversation with the man, because the man just dodged every question, or answered so simply that nothing was truly answered at all. Eren was certain Levi wasn't doing it on purpose, but it was infuriating to him because he was so used to Hange, who was unbelievably open with all their research and knowledge, and it was such a drastic change. But at least Levi actually talked to Eren. Erwin Smith didn't really interact much on a personal level with any of them except Armin.

"Why did they give you wings?" Eren asked as they both stood up. "Do you know?"

"Why are you so fucking nosy?" Levi eyed him suspiciously as he tossed the remains of his dinner into the nearest garbage. "Why should it matter?"

"Because," Eren said, staring at Levi with a confused, desperate gaze, "none of us know why we have the powers we have. We can't remember. But you can, can't you, Levi?"

The man stood for a moment, rays of sunlight from the partially visible sunset hitting his pallid face. And he shook his head. "I fed you," he said quietly. "Now you're gonna shut up, and follow me."

Eren watched Levi whirl around and march toward the street, and he realized that he ought to do as he was told. They walked silently side by side, traffic building up as the sky grew darker. Eren checked his phone as they waited at a crosswalk, his shoulder resting against a pole as he took a picture of the back of Levi's head and sent it to Armin and Mikasa. The light changed, and Levi and Eren went striding toward the subway— the _Tube_— and they took a few steps down into the surprisingly cleanly subway stop. There wasn't even any graffiti in plain sight. It was almost miraculous.

As they boarded a car, a smooth monotone voice called, "Mind the gap, please." And Eren burst into a fit of laughter.

They stood awkwardly clutching the glossy yellow pole at the center of the car before they managed to find and claim two seats for the duration of their ride. Eren received a snapchat from Armin, and he found himself laughing once again, though no one so much glanced at him as the London underground went rattling by in a blur of black and gray and bright, retina burning yellow.

"Look," Eren said, turning the phone to Levi. The man glanced at the screen, his lips pressing together thinly. And then his eyes sparked with interest, and he took the phone from Eren's hand and peered at it closely.

"Is she wearing _make up_?" Levi asked in such a strange, soft, incredulous voice, that Eren thought he might begin to cry. But no. He sat just as stolidly as ever, his hands cupping Eren's phone.

"Yeah," Eren said. "She looks real pretty."

Levi sat quietly. And then he nodded, turning the phone back to Eren with a frown gracing his lips. _It's gotta be hard seeing the kid you raised grow up,_ Eren thought, watching Levi's face curiously. _You act like you don't care, but you ain't foolin' anyone, Levi_. Eren looked down at the picture he had saved to his phone of Mikasa sitting at a vanity, turning her frowning face toward the camera. Her lips were glossy and crimson, and her angular eyes carefully defined with kohl, and her cheekbones graced with the faintest hint of rouge. She was looking at the camera as though she had no idea that a picture was being taken, her lips half-parted and her brow furrowed in irritation. Behind her, Annie was leaning against the wall, dressed in black and blue while Christa, who stood beside her, braided Mikasa's very short black hair.

"Does she not wear make up often?" Eren asked awkwardly. This was not something he knew about Mikasa. He had never really gotten the concept of make up. It didn't strike him as fun to gunk up your face everyday.

"No," Levi said. "She thinks it's a waste of money."

"Oh," Eren said. "Well… to be fair…"

"Yeah, I think I brainwashed her into thinking that," Levi admitted. "But I don't give a fuck, it saved me a shitton."

"What did you even do?" Eren asked.

"Excuse me?"

Eren was keenly aware of the dangerous look in Levi's eye— or perhaps Eren was just scared shitless of the man. "Um, well…" Eren blinked rapidly. "You know, before you moved in with us. What was your job?"

"Oh." Levi settled back into his seat, and he shrugged. "Pick a profession. I've probably done it."

"Have you ever been in a movie?" Eren immediately asked. Levi gave him the most incredulous of stares, and he turned his face forward.

"Pick something plausible, Eren," Levi said with a sigh.

"Why isn't being a movie star…?" Eren flung his hands into the air. "Okay, wow, shit, sorry. Doctor?"

Levi grimaced. "Sure," he said dully. "But definitely didn't make anyone feel any better."

"Uh…" Eren was trying to understand the implications there, but he decided to let it go. "Journalist?"

"I freelanced for a trashy paper for awhile, yeah," Levi said. "I got to write about homicides in Chicago."

"That's… cool," Eren said, uncertain of how his voice sounded. "Okay, so… uh… teacher?"

"I tutored."

"Whoa, really?" Eren's eyes lit up. "What subject?"

"History."

"That's really cool," Eren said. "Why didn't you go for a career in that?"

"I was a drop out," Levi said, resting his head back against the rattling window behind him.

"Oh…" Eren frowned. "Well, that's okay. It kinda worked out, right?"

"Well, considering I have a steady income," Levi said, glancing at Eren with a bored expression. "Yeah. It kinda worked out."

Eren smiled. Levi wasn't the type to talk about himself often, so it was nice to hear him open up about things like this. Eren didn't know a whole lot about people— he liked people, sure, but he wasn't very good at understanding them. So he was always happy to learn new things about someone, just so maybe he could unravel the mystery of the human condition. And Levi was so enigmatic, it was only good fun to poke and prod at the surface of his past.

"So why history?" Eren asked.

Levi sighed. He was wearing a threadbare sweatshirt that made him look rather like a teenager, his skinny, muscular frame swallowed up by the faded red cloth. "I dunno," he said, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "I dunno at all, I just… I liked it when I was in school. I was good at it."

"What happened?"

"Life." Levi rose to his feet as the subway car threw itself into a slower pace, his fist closing around the glossy yellow pole and pushing through the cluster of people standing in wait at the doors. Eren followed obediently, catching the bars above his head that Levi had not been able to reach very well.

As Levi and Eren were spat into the dimly lit subway stop, a smooth accented voice reminding them to, "Mind the gap, please," a sharp voice called out.

"Oi!" Eren's arm was caught by the bony hand of a very small woman. She immediately released him when he spun to face her, blinking as someone bumped into him by default of standing in the middle of a busy platform. The woman was young, her eyes distinctly alert and mildly cautious behind her round, wire-rimmed glasses. Her hair was an almost metallic platinum blonde color, choppy and styled carefully to make it cleanly presented. Eren found himself wondering how a woman could look so punk rock while simultaneously holding the sort of taciturn presence of a Sunday school teacher.

"What the hell do you want?" Levi snapped at the woman, distrustful from the very moment she'd laid a hand on Eren.

The woman glanced at Levi, her sharp eyes assessing his appearance very quickly. Her pale eyebrows quirked, and Eren could tell she was unimpressed. "I'm sorry," she said dully, her gaze matching the intensity of Levi's, "did I happen to offend you in some way within the minute that I've known you?"

"You touched my kid," Levi said, pushing Eren behind him in such a fiercely defensive way that Eren found himself stunned into immobility. "I don't care what your issue is, lady, but nobody touches my fucking kids."

The woman blinked rapidly in shock, and she glanced between Levi and Eren for a moment as though she could not process exactly what Levi was telling her. "I didn't realize he was your…" Her soft, accented voice faded as an elderly man stepped up beside her. He was smiling brightly, his dark face lined and tight as he folded his arms behind his back.

"Is something the matter, Rico?" asked the old man, his accent distinctly western in comparison to his fair-haired companion. He looked between Levi and Eren curiously, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"Naw," Rico said, holding up a familiar looking iPhone. "This kid left his mobile on the Tube."

"Holy shit," Eren blurted, reaching eagerly for his cell phone. "I didn't even notice, wow."

Rico returned it to him with a shrug. "You were in a bit of a hurry," she said, eying Levi with just as much distrust as he gave her. "You might want to be careful, though, if this is your first time in London. You're as likely to get your purse slit as any major city, but leave your valuables on the Tube like that again and I sincerely doubt you'll get it back."

"Right," Eren said, nodding gratefully. "Thanks, miss—"

Levi grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away. Eren cried out in surprise. "Quit pulling me!" he gasped. Levi did not release him, but he did throw a glance back at Rico and the elderly man, who stood near the edge of the platform and watched them. "Yeesh, Levi, what the fu—?"

"Did Hange never teach you about strangers, Eren?" Levi asked, his expression vacant, but his voice furious.

"Of course they did," Eren hissed, wincing at how tight the man's grip was on his bicep. "But that lady was just helping me—"

"I don't care," Levi said. "I don't care who it is, or why. You're in a strange city, Eren, and people could easily take advantage of that fact. Why did you even let her grab you?"

"What?" Eren stopped in the middle of the steps that led up to the darkened London streets. "Levi, I don't have an automatic attack button if someone grabs me, okay? I'm not gonna attack a chick on the fuckin' street just 'cause she touched my arm. And why did you tell her that I was your kid, anyway?"

Levi exhaled very sharply, his nostrils flaring as he glared up toward the glimmering lamp built into the arch of the ceiling. "Think what you want about me," Levi said coldly, "but a kid is less likely to get approached if a parent is with him— or her. I noticed that over the years."

"Levi," Eren said very gently. The man looked very small all of a sudden, and it was astonishing. "I can take care of myself."

Levi glanced at him. And he scoffed.

"You couldn't take care of a gold fish," Levi said, rolling his eyes. Eren frowned, and he couldn't help but feel offended.

"Hange was a stranger, you know," Eren said suddenly as Levi started forward again. He paused to look at Eren sharply. "They found me wandering the side of a highway, and they picked me up. Anyone coulda done it, and I coulda been way worse off, but it was Hange. And they took me home, and cleaned me up, because I was all… muddy, and bloody, I think, and they asked me where I lived, and I said nowhere, and they just blinked and— and _laughed, _and said, "Well, now, that's not true. You can live here." And that was that. So, I mean, I guess I've got a different perspective than you 'bout strangers, but what if I'd ran away from Hange?" Eren shook his head furiously. "My life would fuckin' suck, okay? So…"

"Eren," Levi said. "I didn't ask you for your entire fucking life story. I just want you to be cautious."

"I _am_," Eren gasped.

"No," Levi said, marching forward. "No, you're not. You've got no common sense, and you're reckless and impulsive— you're practically begging for someone to beat you up and mug you."

"I'd beat 'em," Eren declared. "And besides, I can take my ass being kicked to hell an' back."

Levi shook his head as they were met with the chilly October air, streetlamps illuminating the dim London street. They began to walk very slowly, but only because Levi was barely moving. His shoulders were hunched, and he was still shaking his head. It was beginning to drizzle as they turned a corner, Levi's eyes traveling from street sign to street sign. His head was still shaking.

"You have this incredibly stupid notion," Levi said quietly, "that you can just take on everything. That just because you can heal yourself, you're suddenly invincible. And I swear, Eren, one day you'll realize that there are some things you can't bounce back from. And when that day comes, I hope you're not alone, because trust me when I say that you won't survive it."

Eren grimaced at Levi, and he kicked a rock into the street in confusion. "Okay," Eren said. "Are we talkin' like, emotional scarring? 'Cause I've got plenty of that already. Like, you haven't seen it yet, but apparently I can get pretty fucking ridiculous when I get angry."

"You clearly have no idea what I'm talking about," Levi said.

"That's because you're being cryptic as _fuck_!"

"Eren," Levi said. "Why don't you focus on what you're going to say to your father?"

Eren nearly tripped over his own feet. Ah. Yes. The mission. Alpha Squad had the objective to find and possibly apprehend Grisha Jaeger. Hange had managed to find a handful of addresses that his father had compiled as emergency contacts, in case the institute needed to find him. One of them was in London. And thus, here they were. The squad probably would have been larger if Hange still had three planes, but since Eren had kinda destroyed the fastest one, Erwin had decided to send Levi and Eren alone. Across the Atlantic Ocean. It might have been a really awkward few hours if Eren hadn't, y'know, fallen asleep.

"Um…" Eren said, frowning at the darkened sidewalk.

"You're fucking hopeless," Levi sighed. He stopped before a rather nice looking apartment building, all bright white with a teal door. It was a little small, but all the buildings on that particular street were squished together anyway. Eren stood before the building, his stomach squirming into knots as he realized the reality of what was happening. His father could be behind that door. "You ready?"

"No," Eren murmured. _What if he doesn't recognize me_, Eren thought frantically, _because I've grown so much? What if he does, and he just doesn't care? What if he's really all bad after all? What if…?_ "But, I mean, I ain't got much of a choice here."

"No," Levi said quietly. They stood for about a minute in silence, staring at the apartment that perhaps held Eren's father, or perhaps did not. There were things that Eren's father had done that Eren couldn't forgive him for. _Armin keeps saying he's gonna die in here, gonna die, gonna die, and you just don't care, do you, that that's what everyone thinks of you, as the blessed damn grim reaper, 'cause that's your shtick, ain't it?_ "Eren."

"Y-yeah?" _Armin keeps saying he's gonna die, gonna die, gonna die, gonna die, gonna die in here… and you take people, don't you, dad? You take people, and you make them think you're gonna save them. But we know better_.

"If you really don't want to do this—"

"No. What?" Eren shook his head furiously. "No! I need to talk to him."

"Eren," Levi said. "Look— fuck, okay, listen. Your dad did some nasty stuff. I remember, I knew some people in that facility. People who came out worse for wear. You've gotta know that you don't owe him anything, right?"

"Yeah," Eren said impatiently. "Duh. He's an asshole. I get it."

"I don't think you do," Levi sighed.

"Well," Eren snapped, "fucking _explain _to me, then!"

Levi said nothing. Because he didn't want to explain anything to Eren, and he wasn't really attempting to form a connection with Eren. He just wanted Eren to feel comfortable in this bullshit mission. Eren missed Armin and Mikasa. He missed the sensation of their minds so close to his, ribbons connecting their thoughts and their feelings, so that they could never truly feel alone, never truly ache without the comfort of another's mind to soothe the pain. Here, though, the emptiness was crippling.

After another minute of simply standing there in the cold, Levi decided to just kick the door in. Because that was fucking inconspicuous. _He thinks I'm too confident_, Eren thought glumly as they entered the flat. _But he just waltzes into these things without a plan, or nothin'. Armin would be going crazy right now_. Levi turned on a light immediately, and the entire flat was bathed in a warm yellow glow. It was a nice little apartment, with a foyer that led straight into a cozy little living room, and a kitchenette. There were two other doors in the room. Eren wondered if one was a backdoor.

"I don't think anyone's here," Eren said. They weren't trying to be sneaky, Eren knew, so he began to wander about the room. Everything was sort of… spotless. Eren had a nagging feeling that his father was long gone. Bummer.

"Maybe…" Levi ran his fingers across the bookcase beside the open door. "Eren, look at this."

"What?" Eren glanced at Levi, who was staring at his two fingers. He held them out. "Levi, I don't see anything."

"Exactly." Levi's hand closed into a fist, and he kicked the door closed. "Someone's dusted very recently."

Eren didn't know what to say. So then they began to search the flat for anything useful. They found nothing but a few receipts from a super market, an empty pocketbook, an old key, and a spool of red string. Eren plucked up a book from the bookshelf, and began to flip through it. Nothing. Then another. Nothing. Pages slipped through his fingers, and Levi kicked closed another drawer. Another book. Nothing. A cabinet opened and closed. Another book.

A piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Eren blinked, and he bent down, fishing it from the carpet and blinking at it in wonder. He carefully unfolded it, and saw that it was in a faintly blocky script, a child's very precise, very neat hand. The letters were written in pencil, which made them appear scratchy on the little bit of paper. _Dr. Jaeger_, it said, _I know you said it's not very safe right now, but if it's okay, I'd really like to see my mom. I think she's very sad right now, and I also think that it's my fault, so I'd really appreciate it if I could see her. Also, I drew a picture for Historia, if Dr. Langner could put it in her room for me. Thank you. Armin Arlelt_.

It was surreal, clutching the little bit of paper with Armin's little baby signature, with his words that were too smart for a child, and yet here it was, the little glimpse of the Armin Arlelt that had been before the procedure, before he'd completely lost all sense of himself. _His mom_, Eren though wildly. _Armin has a mom_. There was something too strange about the thought, as though Eren could not possibly imagine Armin in any possible way aside from simply springing into existence out of the whim of some mischievous god.

"Levi," Eren gasped, whirling around to face the man. He was kneeling beside a cabinet, holding a little square between his fingers. He glanced up at Eren dully. "I found… I don't really know, but I found something."

"Gimme." Levi reached out for the little scrap of paper, and he offered up his square in response. Eren took it, and just by the texture of the square he knew immediately what it was. A photograph. Eren swallowed hard, and he sunk to his knees as he turned it around slowly. His own smiling face greeted him, brilliant and dark from the Oklahoma sun, his eyes glittering with delight as his mother attacked him with her dainty fingers, her honey-colored eyes a mirror of his own. Eren's heart pounded in his chest. Tears stung his eyes, and he scrubbed at the hollows of his skull with the heels of his hands, and the photograph sat in his lap, a heavy reminder of what little happy memories remained from Eren's childhood.

"Langner," Levi said. He chose to ignore Eren's tears. "That's Ymir's name."

Eren nodded mutely. He sniffled, and gritted his teeth in frustration. "Maybe," he said, "she's in the same boat as me."

"Maybe," Levi said quietly. His eyes flickered as he scanned the letter again. "Who the fuck is Historia?"

"Yeah, I haven't got a clue." Eren avoided looking at his lap as he rested his shoulder against the wooden cabinet. "I've never heard that name before. Ever."

"More questions than answers," Levi muttered, closing his eyes.

"It's better than nothing," Eren said. "And maybe my dad'll be back, or something."

"No," Levi said. "He cleaned out this place as best he could in a short period of time." He paused, and his eyes snapped open dangerously. "He knew we were coming."

"What?" Eren blinked in shock. "How? Unless he had like, Erwin with him or something."

Levi said nothing. He looked back down at the note, and held it up between two fingers. "Where'd you find this?"

"In a book." Eren shrugged. "Uh, something by Victor Hugo."

"Why would your father keep it?" Levi turned the paper over in his hands. "Do you know?"

"No clue," Eren said. "Unless it was just a book mark, maybe."

Levi nodded. "Okay. One more thing. Did you leave the door open?"

Eren stared at Levi confusedly. "What?" he blurted, twisted to look at the door. It was, in fact, wide open. The familiar sound of a gun cocking, the safety clicking off caused Eren to face Levi again. The man sat with a somber expression as a woman with choppy hair and glasses stuck the barrel of a handgun against Levi's hair.

"Don't move," Rico said. Her voice was raspier now than it had been on the platform, and her eyes were duller in the gleam of the yellow lamplight. "I knew you looked familiar, but I couldn't quite catch who you were immediately."

"Rico," Levi addressed her, slowly raising his hands into the air. "You dyed your hair."

"Um…" Eren said. Levi shot him a look, and Eren decided to stay silent. _Can a bullet kill the world's strongest man_? Eren wondered.

"What are you doing here?" Rico asked. Her voice was so casual that Eren wondered if she usually greeted people with such an immense threat.

"Nothing illegal," Levi said. Rico scoffed. "Why did you follow us?"

"I didn't."

Levi sat for a moment. "Then why the fuck are you here?" he asked.

"Oh, I think I can answer that." The front door closed, and Eren turned around once more to see the elderly man from the platform standing only a yard away. _Where the fuck did they come from?_ "Rico here came to me a few years ago with this amazing story— only, it was a complete fabrication, a conspiracy theory, really— or so I thought."

"Who the fuck are you?" Eren asked. He was done being docile and polite. He was gonna beat the shit out of something real fuckin' soon.

"Dot Pixis," said the man kindly. "I own a news network. Blogs, newspapers, a twitter account." He gave a little shrug. "Whatever."

"So…" Eren wanted to scream, he was so enraged. "You're doing a story about my dad, or…?"

"Eren," Levi hissed. Too late. Pixis's eyes grew rather large, and he blinked at Eren in wonder.

"Oh," he said. "Oh, I didn't even recognize you."

"You don't know me," Eren said flatly.

"I know of you," Pixis said. "You survived a fire when you were… what, eight?"

Eren jumped to his feet, the photograph of him and his mother fluttering sadly to the ground. "Who the fuck are you?" Eren repeated with a snarl, taking a stride forward with his entire body coiling in fury. _How does he know about the fire_? Eren wondered wildly. _No one knows about the fire. I don't even know about the fire, really, so how_—?

"Dot Pixis," the man repeated, blinking down at Eren in wonder. "Like I said before—"

"Yeah, okay, fine!" Eren cried. "But what do you want? How do you know about me— and my dad, and— and the _fire_?" He was shaking from his rage, his teeth cracking together as his jaw clenched. "Who the fuck are you?"

Pixis's expression softened a little. "Ah." He closed his eyes, and nodded slowly. "I see. Rico, you can lay off that poor man, you know. We're amongst friends."

"You don't know Levi, sir," Rico said quietly.

"Go ahead and shoot me," Levi stated in his chilly monotone. "Have you ever killed someone before, Rico?" She did not respond. Eren glanced back at her, and saw that her eyes had narrowed at Levi, both hands supporting her handgun now. Levi raised his head to press hard against the barrel of the gun, and stretched himself very slowly to his feet. "Tch. That's what I thought."

"You're a sociopath," Rico accused. Levi whirled around to face her.

"You don't know me," Levi said sharply. "I don't know you."

"You caused a rather large explosion that killed quite a few people," Rico said, "if I'm not mistaken."

Levi stared at her for a moment. Eren watched his nostrils flare ever so slightly, his agitation clear. "And here you are," Levi said. "Free. You're fucking welcome."

"Um…" Eren's anger had faded fast into confusion. "Okay, wait. Hold on. She was at the institute?"

"The _what_?" Rico lowered her gun ever so slightly as she looked at Eren. She glanced back at Levi. "What is he talking about?"

"The facility," Levi said. "All the kids that were there call it the institute. Did you know there were kids, Rico?"

The woman nodded slowly. She met Pixis's eye, and she lowered her gun. "Yeah…" She sighed, and flicked the safety of her gun off. "Yeah, I do now. Did _you_?"

"Yes," Levi said.

"Unbelievable," Rico muttered, closing her eyes.

"You were there too?" Eren asked eagerly, taking a step closer to the woman. She glanced at him icily, and Eren paused. "So… like, you've got a power, then?"

"Yeah," Rico said. "That's how I got in here."

"She's able to turn intangible— phase through solid matter," Dot Pixis said. "A nifty little trick, I would say, for gathering information. She's a wonderful asset."

"Okay, you're gonna explain everything right now," Eren said, whirling to face Pixis. The man merely smiled. "I'm not fucking around! Tell me everything you know about— about this bullshit institute stuff, and my dad. Tell me _everything_!"

Pixis's smile widened. "Hm," he said, "you're very passionate, eh?"

"Oh for fuck's sake," Eren said, taking his wrist in his hand. Before he could crack it, Levi caught him. His dark blue eyes flashed dangerously up at Eren.

"Calm down," he hissed.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Pixis laughed, walked toward the couch. "I was just thinking, well, you're a lot like your mother."

"What," Eren said, his entire body shaking in rage, "the fuck."

Pixis sat down. He shrugged, and lifted a flask from a satchel at his side. "Patience," Pixis said. "I thought you wanted an explanation, Eren."

"Yeah, I do," Eren snapped, "starting with how the fuck you know who I am."

Pixis took a swig from his flask. "Alright," he said. "Sit down, all of you. This is might take some time."

"Great," Levi said. His voice was bitterly unenthusiastic, and he glared up at the ceiling.

Eren sat down on the floor, and Levi followed glumly. Rico sat beside Pixis on the sofa, holstering her gun and folding her hands in her lap. The old man looked around sadly. "I imagine Grisha's already long gone, by the looks of it," Pixis said. "That's a shame. I have some questions of my own for him."

"So do I," Rico said darkly.

Eren glanced at her. And he realized she must've been just as much of a victim as Eren and Levi. "Okay," he said. "I'm waiting real fuckin' patient, here."

"Yes," Pixis laughed, nodding genially at Eren. "I can see that. Well, to begin with, you should know that I actually used to know your father very well, Eren. He was a military doctor for a brief amount of time, just enough for us to cross paths— I'm not American, of course." Pixis waved his flask offhandedly. There was a maple leaf embossed on its face, roses gathering around it, and Eren realized what that signified. "But we ran into each other on a few occasions back in our day. I met your mother before she married your father, and I was at the wedding, but we never kept up with each other." Pixis shrugged. "You'll find as you live your life that you lose little friendships along the way that you regret misplacing, so you try to find them again. It's not the same."

Eren sat quietly. He felt a little better now that Pixis was actually explaining what the fuck was happening, but he was still angry. But he nodded anyway. "So, I'm guessing you ain't here for a little catchin' up," Eren said bitterly.

"And you are?" Pixis quirked an eyebrow. Eren flushed, and he looked down at his knees in frustration. "Yes, I thought so. We both want same thing from Grisha. Answers. See, about five years ago Rico came stumbling into my office, and she told me the most interesting thing. Ah, what did you say, exactly?"

"'The government is performing experiments on humans," Rico said impassively, "and I'm one of their subjects. Tell my story.'"

"Lunacy," Pixis laughed. "But I've never really trusted your government all that well, so when I found out it was true, I can't say I was surprised."

"Wait," Eren said softly. His anger had dulled considerably as he tried to digest all this information. "The government?"

"Yes," Rico said, staring at him with her thick eyebrows furrowing. "Didn't you know…?"

"Well, we knew that there was some faction of it involved," Eren admitted. "But I had no idea it was like, all legit and government official."

"Technically it's not," Rico said. "The facility has been around for a lot longer than anyone realizes."

"Like… early twentieth century?" Levi asked slowly.

"That's when it really got some financial backing," Rico said quietly. "But if I've done my homework correctly, this entire thing predates your _Revolutionary War_."

"Um," Eren said. "That's… a long time ago, wow."

Rico glanced at him. Levi sighed from beside Eren, and he shook his head. "Eren," Levi said, "if Rico's right about this, then the facility— or whatever the fuck is running the show behind the scenes— is older than the United States."

"Oh." Eren's eyes flashed wide. "Oh! Holy shit!"

"Yeah." Levi rolled his eyes. "Do you need tutoring?"

"No, I do not," Eren said. "I'm not bad at history. I just blanked out there."

Levi decided to ignore him. "How did you find out this information, Rico?" Levi asked. Eren could sense his suspicion in the way his eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly, and the harshness of his usually level tone.

"Amongst other things, I found a girl who works for a government funded network," Rico said with a sigh.

"Our rivals," Pixis said excitedly, his old eyes sparkling. "I can't wait until we can finally deliver the story that shuts them down."

"Are you talking about _The Brigade_?" Eren asked slowly.

"Oh," Pixis said with a teasing frown, "don't tell me you're a fan."

"No," Eren said. He shifted uncomfortably on the floor, and looked around his father's apartment. "No, we just know they're connected to the institution in some way."

"Well, they're personally funded by the same person," Rico said bitterly.

Eren knew without having to ask. It was falling into place, the confirmation of things that they had all only suspected until this point. It was what they had built the three missions around. So he sat and contemplated what to do next. His father had vanished, fled the scene very quickly before Eren could find him, and that hurt. He checked his cell phone, and saw that he had gotten another snapchat from Armin. This one had a caption.

_Cinderella is ready for the ball_.

Mikasa was leaning against the kitchen counter in a dress made of heavy crimson fabric, some kind of velvet layered over silk layered over chiffon, with bright red lace crawling from beneath the plunging neckline of the initially strapless dress onto her shoulders and down her arms in clinging, bloody ivy. The dress had not had the lace sleeves until after Hange realized that no strapless dress would ever fit Mikasa, no matter the adjustments or the tailor. She just didn't have the chest for it, or something. So this was the alternative. Something a little audacious, a little too eye-catching for someone as introverted as Mikasa. Her dark eyes were glued to the camera, and her tongue poked out of her shiny red lips at Armin. Ymir was standing behind her in a suit, her hair slicked back, and the odd girl tilted her head back to get her face further into the shot.

Eren showed the picture to Levi, who stared at it for only a moment before looking away. "Nice," he said quietly. But Eren noticed him steal another glance at the screenshot, blinking once, twice, and it was clear that he didn't seem to know how exactly to react. _Maybe it's like seeing your daughter go to prom, or something_, Eren thought.

"America is corrupt," Rico said dully. "Your entire country is built revolving around this facility, this— this quest for immortality! Did you know that there are three facilities? The one we were in when we escaped, it was the most recently built, but it was also the least helpful. It doesn't have the type of information that will help us bring down whoever is in charge of this entire thing."

"Are you saying," Levi said with narrowed eyes, "that Reiss is not the one in charge?"

Reiss. The most shocking thing to come out of Hange's finds at the institute was that name as the foremost benefactor to the cause. The three missions were built upon the information gathered. Grisha Jaeger's address. President Reiss. _The Brigade_. Eren felt a little sick as he tried to sort it all out in his head, what all this meant, all this government conspiracy stuff. _My dad was in the military_, Eren thought. _He never told me that_.

"Reiss is most definitely not in charge," Pixis said, taking a swig from his Canadian pride flask. "If anything, he's a glorified pawn in this game of chess. A benefactor and a figurehead, nothing more."

"Then," Eren said quietly, awed by what Pixis was saying, "if Reiss is just a puppet, then… then who's…?"

"Running the show?" Pixis asked. "Running the country? Who knows. Who knows how long this has been going on. Like Rico said, Maria was the last facility to be built. Sina, which is in Massachusetts, was the first. It was built in the early 1900's. The records there go back years and years— Rico found death certificates dated from the Salem Witch Trials, in fact!"

"That's…" Eren struggled to find his voice. His body felt numb as he realized, truly, what kind of situation they'd landed themselves in. "That's… amazing."

"That's terrifying," Levi corrected. He closed his eyes, and Eren saw his jaw clench in rage. "No wonder everything sucks so bad."

"Okay," Eren said, his heart thundering. He turned his eyes to Pixis, his fists clenching in his lap. "Okay, fine. Our president not only funded our experimentation, but he's also probably not really authentic at all. That's fuckin' dandy." Eren rose to his feet unsteadily. "Now tell me. What the fuck do you know about the fire?"

Pixis looked surprised. "Your father told me about it," the old man said very gently. "I was going to do a story on it, but he called me up last minute and told me that I had to scrap it. That he couldn't put his son in that kind of situation." Pixis smiled grimly, and he took another swig from his flask. "If I had known what he was doing, I'd have exposed him before any of this human experimentation nonsense could have happened."

Eren found himself stunned. Because this was not what he'd expected. He'd thought that Pixis had to know something he wasn't telling anyone. It was just the way he was, the way he looked like he was harboring some delicious secret, and everyone was a fool in comparison. It was infuriating, and yet Eren couldn't help but believe him. So he very slowly dropped back to the floor, and stared at the little wallet photograph of himself and his mouth laughing at a camera. And his lips began to tremble.

"Eren," Pixis said gently. "I do have a question for you. About the fire."

"What?" Eren asked, his voice thick. He didn't look up from the photograph. "What do you want?"

"Well," Pixis said, "I wanted to know what happened to the girl they found alive in the house. Do you know who she was?"

Eren looked up. He stared at Pixis in wonder, his mouth going dry, and his mind backpedaling as it tried to process this information. A girl. In his house. But no, that couldn't be, wouldn't he have remembered? Wouldn't his father have noticed? Eren could remember being stuck outside, stuck and weeping because he couldn't move, he couldn't do anything to save his mother. It had only been just the two of them, hadn't it? Eren and his mother.

But in truth, he could not remember. All the details were fuzzy now.

"A girl?" Eren asked, bewildered. "What _girl_?"

Pixis studied Eren's face, and he frowned. The lines around his mouth deepened. "I'm sorry," Pixis said with a chuckle. "I might be mistaken."

"Yeah," Eren said. "You definitely are. There wasn't no girl there, kay? I'd remember that."

Pixis just nodded. He looked at Eren, and there was something very off about him. About this entire conversation. Something was wrong, but Eren could not put his finger on it. _There was no girl_, Eren told himself. _There was no one. Just me and mom_. Eren began to tremble, his fingers making oily smears across the face of the photograph in his fist, and he could hear the shallowness of his breath, taste bile crashing onto his tongue, and he hated his father so much in that moment for doing this to him. _But I wanted this_, Eren recalled numbly. _I wanted to be strong. I wanted him to do this, and he did it, and it's all my fault, everything is my fault, isn't it?_

"Eren," Levi said quietly. It was as though he could sense the approach of a full blown panic attack, and he sounded a little terrified.

So Eren rounded on him.

"How many adults were there at the institute?" Eren asked furiously. Levi's eyes narrowed. "How many kids? How can we possibly know now, since there was three of 'em? How do we even know there was three— there could be hundreds of 'em! We just don't know, right? We don't know anything about this!"

"The one in Massachusetts, Sina," Rico said, "is abandoned. Looked like it has been that way for quite a bit of time."

"As for Maria," Pixis said, "Rico said that she knew of three other participants to the experiment, but she can't be sure if that's all there was."

"Three," Eren said blankly. He glanced down at Levi, who sat glumly with his legs folded, and his chin tucked to his chest. "Levi, Erwin, and…?"

"Some woman named Rose," Rico said. Eren saw Levi shift in discomfort, his eyes rising to meet Rico's. He looked irritated.

"Rose?" Eren tried to figure out if that name was familiar to him, but no. He didn't think he'd ever met a woman named Rose before. "What was her power?"

"She didn't have one," Levi said softly. He was glaring at Rico, his shoulders squared. "She went crazy after her procedure."

"No," Rico said, blinking at Levi. "I thought she was crazy before, and the procedure was meant to remedy that."

"No, she wasn't," Levi said. "Also, Rose wasn't her real name."

Rico's eyes flashed with curiosity, and she leaned forward. "Did you _know_ her?" Rico asked very quietly. "Is that why you were so upset when they moved her?"

"I was upset," Levi said, "because they drove her crazy, and then got rid of the collateral. It made me realize how disposable we were to those people."

Rico gave short, bitter laugh as she leaned back. "Levi had to be sedated," she informed them, never looking away from Levi's somber face. "He punched a hole through a wall."

"How did you know her?" Eren asked, blinking in wonder at Levi.

"I worked with her," Levi said very dully, "when I was younger."

"Why didn't you ever tell anyone?" Eren asked, shifting so he was sitting on his knees. "We're supposed to be finding people from the institute, aren't we? How come you never told us about her?"

"Because, Eren," Levi sighed, "she's a lost cause. Wherever they sent her, I'm sure it's better than what we could give her. My problem wasn't that they were taking her away— it was that they took away her mind, and then when they realized how royally they'd fucked up, they abandoned her case."

"You don't care where she ended up?" Eren asked furiously. "What if they killed her, huh?"

"They didn't," Levi said.

"How do you know that?"

"They'd bring her back every month or so," Rico said. She folded her arms across her chest, and glanced at Pixis. "Maybe to see if they could fix her."

"So they didn't totally abandon her," Eren said quietly, relaxing a little.

"Did you miss the part where they drove her to fucking insanity, or…?" Levi rolled his eyes. "Anyway, if you're really all wound up about this, we can track her down. But she's not gonna be any help to us. The last time I saw her, she just looked at me and asked me if her hands had disappeared."

Eren might have laughed if Levi's words hadn't sounded so eerily familiar. _My hands have disappeared_, Eren thought, blinked down at his own dark, skinny fingers. _Huh_. It was like someone had put on an old song that Eren had known from years and years ago, and Eren knew the words by heart, but he couldn't quite recall when or how he'd memorized them. It was a tickling, nostalgic feeling.

"What do you two plan on asking Grisha?" Pixis asked, glancing between them.

"Just…" Eren hadn't really thought about it. He'd been planning on letting the conversation take its course. "I don't know. Why, I guess."

"Why." Pixis smiled wanly. "Why did he do this to his own son? Or why he did it in general?"

"Both," Eren said, though he knew why his father had done it to him. "And, how, I guess. How this was possible."

"Rico," Levi said. He looked a little small, like a child shrinking in apprehension. "I never asked, but why…?"

"Why," Rico said, her eyes narrowing, "did I consent to experimentation?"

"Yeah." Levi glanced at Eren, who was keenly aware of how uncomfortable the man was very suddenly. "I don't know why anyone signed onto the project except for me. Erwin won't say anything, Rose was never reliable. You didn't talk to anyone."

"That's because you were all rather strange, and a little off," Rico said. "But, whatever. I got sick when I was still going for my degree. I couldn't pay off my student loans and my hospital bills." Rico rested her head on the back of the sofa, and she sighed. "I almost just dropped everything and moved back home. My mum would have liked that. She didn't know I was sick, and she never will now, but I saw an opportunity."

"And," Levi said, "you took it."

"Yes." She sat up straight, and her pale eyes narrowed at him. "What about you?"

Levi frowned. He sat quietly, his bony hands resting on his knees. Eren could hear a clock ticking away in the kitchenette. He could hear the rushing of cars thrumming past in the street outside. He could hear the muffled laughtrack of a television in an apartment next door. He was itching to fall asleep, his exhaustion creeping up on him. The apartment smelled clean, like the lilac soap his mother always had in the bathroom, the scent of Eren being lifted up in order to reach the faucet, the scent of his mother's soft hands as she wiped his tears with the pad of her thumb, and slapped a bandage on Eren's skinned knee, laughing that he was so reckless, what was she gonna do with him, the scent of her hair when she let him crawl onto her back while she watered her flowers, the scent that suddenly intermingled with something burning, ashes tickling his nostrils, and he thought for a moment that he was going to throw up.

"I had an addiction problem," Levi said. "And… it was shitty. So…"

"Was it really that bad," Rico said, "that you sold yourself to science?"

Levi exhaled shakily through his mouth. Rico stared at him, and Eren stared at him, and Pixis took a swig from his flask, looking around the apartment with vague interest in his wizened face. Levi had gone very pale, as though he'd just been given his life sentence, as though he was waiting for a diagnosis, as though he'd just realized how incredibly fragile life was.

"Yes," he said quietly.

It didn't seem to go well with Rico. She studied him suspiciously. "You know," she said, "that's clearly not all. But, I'll let you have your privacy."

Levi's jaw shifted, and he rose to his feet. "There are other addresses," he said suddenly. He didn't look at Rico or Pixis, who watched him with very different expressions of surprise. "Tag along if you want, I don't give a fuck."

Eren jumped to his feet, throwing a glance at Rico and Pixis, and then following Levi across the room. Levi entered a room, and Eren went after him, blinking rapidly as Levi slammed the door shut behind them. He was glaring at the floor, his jaw tight, and his shoulders trembling.

"Are you okay?" Eren asked slowly. He looked around, and saw that they were in his father's bedroom. It was very neat and tidy, a twin bed pressed against the far wall, an armchair in the corner beside a lamp and a small bookshelf, and a heavy oaken desk. Levi stood with his back pressing to the door, and he shook his head.

"I don't trust them," he said quietly. His eyes flashed, and he pressed his head closer to the door.

"They gave us a lot of information, though," Eren pointed out.

"I don't care."

Eren frowned. He knew that Levi had trust issues, but Rico and Pixis had basically spilt some major shit without considering the ramifications, so Eren didn't see why they couldn't just trade information. But Levi stood, his lips pressed thinly together, and Eren realized that there was something bothering the man.

"Did you recognize her?" Eren asked. "At the platform? Is that why you were so mean to her?"

Levi glanced at him. "I thought she looked familiar," he said, his voice very low. He was still listening to whatever Pixis and Rico were saying. "Then Pixis called her Rico, and I figured it had to be her. But I don't think she recognized me until after."

"Why?" Eren asked curiously. "Do you look all that different from way back then?"

"It wasn't that long ago," Levi said. "And, yeah. I look a lot healthier now."

"Healthier?" Eren was surprised, and Levi pushed off the door, marching up to the desk and sitting down.

"Go to sleep," Levi said.

"I'm not tired," Eren lied.

Levi pulled open a drawer, and pulled a thicket of papers from it. "I don't care," he said. "We're going to be travelling. Our mission isn't over until we find your father. So go to fucking sleep, because I'm not carrying you all across Europe, you shitfaced brat."

Eren sighed, and he kicked off his shoes, glaring up at the ceiling. "I have school," Eren reminded.

"If we don't find him by Monday, we'll go home," Levi said, flipping through the papers at the desk. Eren flopped onto his father's bed, and he pulled out his phone. It was midnight, now. How had time gone by so quickly? He had another snapchat, this one from Mikasa, but it ended up just being Sasha and Connie making obnoxious faces at the camera in-costume. Connie had received a bright green suit that would allow him to go faster, without the restrictions of normal material, and goggles so he'd be able to see better through the wind. Sasha had received a new green hood, which was long-sleeved and heavily armored for the sake of her lack of powers. She had a black mask over her eyes, not dissimilar to the one Eren wore as Rogue.

"You know," Eren said resting his phone on his chest as he stared up at the spackled, egg white ceiling, "I remembered something. About my dad."

Levi said nothing. Eren listened to the sound of papers flipping, and the soft murmuring of two voices from beyond the door. He thought about Mikasa, whose mission was the most dangerous of the three, and he closed his eyes. He wished he were there instead of here, in his father's room, breathing in the scent of lilac soap and exhaling the taste of ashes.

"I remembered," Eren continued, "that after my house burned down, I was so… I was angry, and I wanted to… to be stronger." Eren listened as the papers stopped fluttering. "So I told my dad to make me strong, and he… he didn't really want to, or anythin', I don't think. He just kept sayin' my name, like that'd change my mind, like I didn't know what I was sayin', but I did, y'know?" Eren blinked his eyes open, and he almost laughed. "I wanted to be stronger, and I told him, I said, "If you can't make me strong, then get away from me." Maybe he did me a favor, givin' me my power. It's not like I didn't get what I wanted."

"You were a kid," Levi said. "You didn't know what you wanted."

Eren turned onto his side, watching Levi's back as he began to short out the papers again.

"You were an adult," Eren said. "Did you know what you wanted?"

Levi's shoulders squared. "Yes," he said.

"Do you regret it?" Eren asked.

"No."

"Why?" Eren couldn't help but pry— it was in his nature. Levi's head bowed as his body went rigid. "Why'd you do it? You knew what you were signin' up for, right? So why'd you do it?"

Levi did not face Eren. He did, however, turn his face toward a wall, and stare at it for a long time. A minute ticked by. Eren inhaled lilacs, and exhaled ashes. He felt sick to his stomach. He felt sleepy, and nauseous, and he felt sad. Eren wasn't stupid. He knew there was more than that addiction shit that Levi had told Rico. There had to be, just by how he'd reacted to the question. But he had to have known it was coming, since he'd pried into Rico's business, right? Eren didn't know. He closed his eyes, and breathed in the scent of his mother's hair.

"I tested HIV positive."

Eren opened his eyes. _Wait_, he thought, _what?_

He stared at Levi's back tiredly. "So… what…?"

"They cured me." Levi whirled around in the spinning desk chair, and his eyes were a dark, hollow blue as he stared at Eren.

"Is that even possible?" Eren whispered.

Levi stared at him. Eren suddenly saw how fragile this man was, the strongest man in the world, and he saw in his eyes that he wasn't so incredibly callous and cold. He was just tired. And so was Eren.

"I don't know," Levi said. "I guess so."

_How they can cure stuff like that?_ Eren wondered. _And why were we involved?_

* * *

_I don't offer much explanation for the robots. But then again, I don't offer many explanations for anything. I wonder, did this chapter answer any questions at all, or did it just prepose new ones?_

_I remember writing this ending and debating not doing it, because I know it's a serious topic, and I don't mean to be so careless with it. I wanted to write it in to shed some light on how desperate Levi was when he was approached about this experimentation deal. I was talking to Angie about it, when I was still on the fence about it, and she told me that it made sense. I know I've been glazing over Levi's past, throwing little things out there, but they're all pretty heavy on their own, and accumulated? I don't think I could ever actually go into depth with it. And I don't think I need to._

_This chapter was written because I, personally, am very fond of Levi growing fond of Eren in a fatherly sense. I think Levi's a terrible father, of course, but I'm pretty damn attached to the idea that he has such a soft spot for kids that they just flock to him. I despise ereri in any form other than platonic, so don't even bring it up to me. If I had the time, I'd give each kid a fun little side mission chapter with Levi. But since there are time constraints, I'll stick with trying to flesh out Levi's relationships with Mikasa, Eren, and Armin. _

_There's actually so much I have to say about this chapter, but I'd just go on forever. Just remember that Levi is a socially awkward asshole who is responsible for way too many kids. Never forget. _


	13. there is a god within us

_**est deus in nobis**_

**Washington D.C.**

_a.d. vi Idus Octobres, 2677 A.U.C._

"Ackerman, Ackerman… I think I know a pair of Ackermans— they live out West, do you know them? I think they moved recently from Los Angeles…"

Mikasa spotted Ymir serving a lady not too far away, and the freckled girl glanced at Mikasa and smirked. This was the absolute worst. Mikasa had never been to a party like this before. Sure, Jean and Marco had dragged her to a few parties when she had still gone to school with them, but that was different. She hadn't really minded those, because at least she could make it her job to become Jean's monitor when he got too shitfaced. This, though? This was terrible. She felt stifled, and a little lightheaded with all the perfume and the false smiles. Who even _were_ these people? Celebrities and politicians? It wasn't like Mikasa knew or cared about any of them.

"And by the way, Miss Ackerman, you're very beautiful. I'm sure you get that a lot, but really, you walked in and captured everyone's attention, didn't you?"

Mikasa wasn't even sure who she was talking to. She'd been trying to find Hange, and some couple had pulled her aside. They'd known who she was before she'd even introduced herself. It was creepy, and a little infuriating. She'd ended up saying her name even after they'd addressed her, and she felt foolish and awkward. Ymir was still smirking at her, her limp brown hair slicked back as she held out a tray of shrimp to a senator's wife.

"Hange better keep you close, you know. I'll bet you have boys lining up to date you, hm?"

Mikasa blinked rapidly at the question. She heard Ymir snort, and she had to bite her tongue to keep from blurting that she really needed to get some air. Hange had warned her about this. They'd said that everyone at these galas were nosy, and not to worry to much. And to smile, if possible. But Mikasa wasn't smiling. She was ready to break someone's arm.

"No," Mikasa said. "I don't like attention."

"Oh, that's all right. You're just shy. It's sad, though— your predicament. Will Hange adopt you too, do you know?"

Mikasa turned away. Ymir had bumped into the man and woman who had stopped Mikasa, and now she was apologizing with her strange, thick drawl. Mikasa made a mental note to thank her later. Mikasa didn't know how she'd been chosen to be Hange's trophy charity case for this particular party. Perhaps because she was the only one aside from Annie who had been with Hange long enough for the media to know who she was. Eren and Armin had been selected specifically for different missions, so it was on her to be the distraction.

Hange had selected Mikasa, Ymir, Reiner, Bertholdt, Connie, and Sasha for Beta Squad. Mikasa was to accompany Hange to a gala that the president was supposed to be attending. Hange had apparently been able to swing that shit. That's how much power Hange had. Mikasa was bewildered, and a little scared, because what exactly did Hange do to get that much respect?

Their goal was basically to pull off some_ National Treasure 2_ shit. They were going to try and get President Reiss to admit his involvement in the institute. Once they did that, they were going to blackmail him in order to get a proper meeting with him so he'd answer their questions.

"Look at you," Armin said that morning after taking a picture of her getting her makeup done. Ymir had been the one to do that. She had said that where she came from, getting all dolled up took way more time, and to be thankful for the shit she had. Mikasa was surprised at how efficient Ymir had been, and the girl looked rather proud of herself. Christa had been doing Mikasa's hair when Armin had walked in. "You look prepared to gut someone."

"That's the desired effect," Mikasa said dryly. Annie was leaning against the wall, already dressed in her new suit. She looked like a bruise, black and blue and yellow. It was kind of like an over-sized blue sweatshirt, or a tunic, or something. She looked comfortable, at least. "When are you leaving?"

"An hour or so," Armin said, tucking his phone into his pocket. "We have to debrief Marco and Jean, so…"

"Right…" Mikasa still had a bad taste in her mouth thinking about how her powerless friends were now apparently part of their team. She told Erwin that they were going to get themselves killed, but Erwin assured her that it would go smoothly. He infuriated her as much as Levi did.

"None of you think having two fellas without any abilities to speak of might be like adding some dead weight to your squad?" Ymir asked from Mikasa's bed. She'd collapsed there after doing Mikasa's makeup, though she needed to get ready soon as well. Hange had somehow managed to get three serving positions available for Ymir, Bertholdt, and Reiner to fill at the gala. Connie and Sasha would not attend, but would wait at an appointed place until they had Reiss apprehended.

"Hange hasn't got any abilities," Armin pointed out.

"Hange's got _money_," Ymir said, rolling her head until it hung off the side of Mikasa's bed. "And influence. See, me and you, little blond one, we've got our awful specialness— but Hange's got power. The kind we _don't _got."

No one could argue with that logic, so Christa quickly changed the subject. "You have such pretty hair, Mikasa," the tiny girl said. "It's perfect for braiding."

That was interesting to her, because she'd never braided it before. "It used to be longer," Mikasa said. "But Levi told me that having long hair is a tactical fuck up, since anyone can just go and grab it. So I cut it."

"Have you ever thought about growing it out again?" Christa asked.

"Nope."

"You know what's funny," Ymir said, slipping off the bed. "None of you have any trouble believing the president is behind the experimentation. Sure, there was some shock here and there, but I'll bet after you thought about it a little, you weren't all that surprised."

"Well, it's not all that surprising, is it?" Christa asked quietly, her dainty fingers working at pulling Mikasa's braids behind her head. "He's a terrible president. I don't know why… why anyone would vote for him…"

"Well, for one," Ymir said, "he's white."

Mikasa had nearly laughed at that, and Ymir high fived her triumphantly. Armin adjusted his glasses, and he shrugged. "I think it boils down to media coverage," Armin said. "_The Brigade_ was totally all for his campaign."

"And _The Brigade_ is completely corrupt," Annie said, "right?"

"Well, that's what we're going to find out," Armin said. Christa pinned Mikasa's hair, and exhaled in relief.

"There we go," she said. "Done."

"Great…" Mikasa glanced at herself in the mirror. She tilted her head. She looked… fucking weird.

The fact that President Reiss was involved in the institute didn't surprise Mikasa. What surprised her was that it was information so easily stolen. And, besides, it was clear that whatever role the man played, he'd played it before he became president. So there was that.

_But still_, Mikasa thought, glancing around for Hange at the gala. _Why would Reiss get involved with something like human experimentation? What's the purpose?_

She had not idea. That was the trouble. They didn't know what was going on, they didn't know anything, and it was terrifying. Even Erwin seemed to be a little lost, with all his precognition and all his planning. There was something rotten that they were all collectively unearthing, and the closer they got to it, the more the world seemed to bake in its decaying glory.

"Refreshment, miss?"

Mikasa glanced up at Reiner's beaming face, and she wanted to punch him. She was not in the mood for any of this bullshit. "Have you seen Hange?" Mikasa asked, folding her arms across her chest.

"Nope," Reiner said. "Not since they tagged that senator— oh shit." Reiner raised his platter up to cover his face, and Mikasa stared at him blankly.

"What?" she asked, glancing around. She saw nothing but a faceless crowd, chattering and buzzing with small talk she didn't care for.

"The guy who kidnapped Christa's here," Reiner hissed, peeking over his tray. Mikasa followed his gaze, and her eyes landed on a middle-aged priest chatting idly with a woman several yards away.

"The priest?" Mikasa asked.

"Yeah." Reiner groaned, and he attempted to hide behind Mikasa. "If he recognizes me, this is over. Just to put things into perspective, Bertholdt possessed him, probably caused some real mental damage, and then Marco smacked him over the head with a baseball bat. He's not gonna be happy to see me."

"Marco did what?" Mikasa had to think about it. Marco. Genial, assuring, benevolent Marco Bodt. Hitting a priest over the head with a baseball bat. Amazing.

"He cracked the dude's head almost clean open," Reiner said, grinning toothily. "Swear to god."

"Might want to avoid that," Mikasa told him, watching the priest vacantly. "Since, you know, you attacked a priest."

"I didn't know you were religious."

"I'm not," Mikasa said.

"Then no worries," Reiner said, smiling tightly. "Anyways, people like us, we don't exist in the eyes of gods."

Mikasa stood quietly, trying to digest his words. The priest turned around, and Reiner bolted so fast that Mikasa had to flatten her skirt so the breeze wouldn't kick it up. She blinked at the elder man, who was watching Reiner's retreating form with a blanching face, his lips pressing together thinly. Mikasa, who was alone yet again, figured it couldn't hurt to see if she could get some answers out of him. _He kidnapped Christa_, Mikasa thought, drifting closer to the man. _I wonder why_.

"Excuse me," the priest said to her, before she even made her move to speak to him. "Young lady, would you happen to know who that man was?"

"Um…" Mikasa stood awkwardly with her arms pinned at her sides. She looked away, and then back at the priests face. "A… waiter…?"

The priest stared after Reiner, his shoulders squared and his eyes very wide. Mikasa could sense the danger in this man's fear of Reiner, so she cut between him and his view of the retreating blond. "Father, I had a question," Mikasa said, her mind reeling to actually find a question to ask.

"Hm?" The man glanced at her, and he quickly composed himself. "Yes, I'm sorry, what did you say, child?"

_I'm not a child_, Mikasa wanted to snap. "I have a question," Mikasa said slowly. She stood awkwardly as the priest nodded and turned his full attention to her. She blinked, and looked down, swishing the skirt of her dress idly, her jaw clenching. She didn't have a question. What was she supposed to ask? The priest just stared at her expectantly, and she was just swishing her skirt like a little girl, completely and utterly oblivious. She hated this.

"Well, what's the question?" the priest asked her gently.

"It's…" Mikasa looked around her for Ymir, or Hange, or anyone to save her. "It's… a good one, it's…"

"Are you alright?" The priest watched her worriedly. "You look very pale."

Mikasa nodded, and then she paused. What did people discuss with priests, anyway? She tried to think, tried to dredge up all the things her teachers had come to her with, begging her to see the guidance office, or a therapist, or _someone_. She exhaled sharply, silk and chiffon clenched in her fingers, and she wished someone else had been given this stupid mission.

"I wanted to ask," Mikasa said, her voice very distant. "I mean… see…" She glanced down at her wrist, where a heavy silver cuff was hiding her tattoo. "My… father… has had some problems with addiction, and I've been worried lately that he'll relapse." Mikasa was surprised at herself. She'd been meaning to lie, but what had come out had been an almost truth. She threw a glance at the woman watching them, a scathing look that cause the woman to whirl away.

"I see," said the priest. "How long has he been suffering from this addiction?"

"I don't know," Mikasa said. She looked around the room. _Come on_, Mikasa thought. _Somebody send a signal so I can get out of here_.

"Well," the priest said, his voice still very soft, "I think the best thing you can do for your father is to be supportive when he's struggling. I know many good men who have succumbed to gluttony in the past, and I understand your concern, but you must be strong for him—"

"I'm strong," Mikasa cut in, throwing a glance at the old man. "I'm plenty strong. And so is he. That's the problem."

"Ah," the priest said, "he's stubborn, then? That's good. If he's stubborn, it'll be harder for him to give into temptation. Listen, I'll keep you in my prayers, miss— what was your name?"

Mikasa said nothing. Ymir had briefly passed by, her dark eyes flickering between Mikasa and the priest. Mikasa left the priest where he was and tailed the girl, ignoring the man's shouts after her. Ymir smirked as Mikasa stopped beside her, scratching at her tattoo self-consciously, though she knew no one could see it.

"Having fun?" Ymir asked. Her drawl made Mikasa want to shove her.

"I'm tired of this," Mikasa said. "Aren't you?"

"I don't mind." Ymir's face glowed mischievously, her freckles dancing like dark stars across her warm skin. She was an odd girl, never quite seeming to blend, or want to for that matter. "I like coming to these ritzy joints— it's all the gossip you could ever dream of. But you don't seem the type of gal to care for any of that."

"I don't," Mikasa confirmed. "I'm surprised you do."

Ymir smiled coyly. "The best kept secrets are told when you think no one is listening," she said. She stood up straighter, and jerked her chin ahead of them. "See that girl?" Mikasa followed her gaze to a very sly looking girl who was chatting with Bertholdt, who looked rather uncomfortable. "I caught a good ten minutes of her suspicions of Reiss's indfidelity. And, better yet, she's a journalist. Works for that _Brigade_ paper, or whatever."

"_The Brigade_?" Mikasa stared at the girl. "What's her name?"

"Hitch." Ymir shrugged. "Go on and get her away from Bertl, will you? My boy's got some skinning to do."

"Right." Mikasa brushed past Ymir and moved toward Bertholdt, who stood uncertainly as Hitch continued to gab senselessly at him. Mikasa stood for a moment beside her, listening as she spoke about some politician standing not too far away, and his torrid affair with one of his maids. Bertholdt looked at Mikasa, and she could see the desperation in his eyes.

"Can you get me a pop?" Mikasa asked Bertholdt. He looked at her, and nodded eagerly.

"Y-yes," he gasped, ducking away from Hitch, who stood stunned for a moment.

"Huh." She rounded on Mikasa. "That was rude. Who are you?"

"Mikasa," she said. Once again she found herself looking for Hange.

"Oh," Hitch said, her cat-like eyes flickering as she gave Mikasa a once over. "Ooh. Right. You're Hange Zoë's new orphan, right?"

Mikasa stood, tightlipped and bemused, and she nodded very slowly. Hitch grinned, the sort of wide, curling smile that seemed to be plastered infinitely onto her pale face. She faced Mikasa fully, lifting her glass to her lips as she stuck out her bony hand, her expertly manicured nails sharpened until claw-like in manner. For the umpteenth time that night, Mikasa felt as though she had missed something, some crucial lesson taught in primary schooling— how to hold some sort of social grace while undoubtedly being low in moral fiber. Mikasa shook Hitch's hand, wondering how many bones she could break depending on the sort of pressure she could apply. _Stop_, Mikasa told herself. _You're being sadistic. That's not you. That's not who you are. _But then, when had she ever cared before?

"I'm Hitch," the girl said, peeling her fingers away from Mikasa's skin. She tossed her pale, fluffy hair behind her ear, and she glanced around. "You know, I've heard a lot about you."

"Really?" Mikasa wasn't surprised. Everyone seemed to know her here.

"Yes," Hitch said, her smile still tight on her glossy pink lips. "Oh, everyone loves you. So stylish and demure, like a little porcelain doll." Mikasa blinked rapidly as Hitch pinched her cheek, and she took a step back instinctively. "It's really very cute, you know. How long has Hange had you in her clutches?"

"Their," Mikasa corrected.

Hitch rolled her eyes. But she nodded. "Right, right, sorry," she sighed. "_Their_. Always forget."

"Yeah…" Mikasa eyed Hitch cautiously. "And if you're asking how long I've been living with Hange, it's been about a month and a half."

"That's not very long at all," Hitch cooed, her smile slightly disheartened. "But wasn't there sort of an influx of kids in that house? Like she— _they_, sorry— bought an orphanage or something?"

"Hange doesn't turn anyone who needs help away," Mikasa said. "So they don't."

Hitch laughed. "Wow," she said. "I guess there really are angels in this world. So you don't feel a little out of place with Hange?" Hitch tilted her head, her eyes glimmering. "Ever?"

Mikasa frowned. "No," Mikasa said. _Unless you count now_, she thought.

"Huh," Hitch said. "Well. Oh hey, isn't that Hange over there?" Mikasa followed Hitch's gaze. "And talking to the _president._ Isn't she special?"

"They," Mikasa corrected. Hange met her eye, and they winked. They were wearing a designer suit, and for this occasion they were wearing contacts. They'd even combed their hair, so the ponytail they wore was not quite messy, but rather a little tussled.

"Yeah," Hitch said. "So how did they spring that?"

"What?" Mikasa blinked at her, and Hitch shrugged.

"Getting so chummy with the pres," Hitch said. "You know."

"I don't know," Mikasa said. "Why are you here?"

Hitch smiled then, and it was a devilish, knowing smile. And she winked. "You're definitely smarter than anyone here gives you credit for," she giggled. "I'll give you that one."

_Um, okay, but why? _Mikasa had no idea what she was supposed to assume from that. "Good to know," Mikasa said. She watched Hange, who had turned her back with their arm crossed to face Mikasa. Their thumb was digging into their spine, and then their forefinger. "What do you know about him?"

"The president?" Hitch's acutely shaped eyebrows rose behind her pale, fluffy bangs. "You mean, what super secret things do I know about him?"

Hange's middle finger burrowed into the folds of the back of their suit. "The president shouldn't have secrets," Mikasa found herself saying.

"Everyone has secrets, honey," Hitch said. "Especially Mister President over there. I'm sure you've heard the rumors about his daughter."

"His daughter?" Mikasa blinked rapidly. She had no idea that Reiss had a daughter, but then again, she'd never given a shit about politics before Hange had forced her into this. Four fingers. "He has a daughter?"

"Well," Hitch said, her lips dragging in a shiny, all-knowing grin, and she leaned very close to Mikasa to the point where her perfume overwhelmed all of Mikasa's senses, "he _did_."

"What do you mean?" Mikasa asked. "What happened to her?"

"Well, that's the trouble, isn't it?" Hitch's eyelashes batted innocently as she lifted her chin and glanced around. "One minute, Reiss had this gap-toothed, rosy cheeked, angelic little girl— oh, you could probably find a hundred pictures of her on the internet, she was so close to being a child model, I swear— but then one day she kinda just poofed. He doesn't talk about her. She's never seen. But nobody even questions it." Hitch leaned very close again, and she brushed her fingers against Mikasa's shoulder, jerking her chin over at the president and Hange. "Personally, I think the wife did it."

"How is that even possible?" Mikasa asked, staring as Hange's fingers struck five, and out of the corner of her eye, Mikasa saw Ymir begin to move. "You can't keep something like that a secret."

"You can if you're a Reiss," Hitch said. "Especially if you're a Reiss. Because in the Reiss family, scandal doesn't happen. Trust me, I've taken note of how immaculate their history is on paper. It's such a shame, though." Hitch leaned away from Mikasa, much to her relief, and the woman's grin actually fell. "Historia was a good kid, from what I could tell. I think the official story is that she's off in boarding school, but, like, please." Hitch scoffed. "That girl hasn't been seen in forever, and I heard there was a girl who went missing very recently who looked a whole lot like Historia. But that's just speculation, of course."

Reiner had slipped away, Mikasa saw, his eyes meeting hers at the kitchen door. There was a way out of the building from there, Mikasa knew, and it wasn't guarded. Ymir was nearing Hange. Bertholdt was standing conspicuously in the middle of the massive hall, his head poking out above everyone else's.

"You said," Mikasa said slowly, "that you think his wife had something to do with it?"

"Oh, yeah," Hitch laughed. "Jealous bitch. See, Historia was adopted, officially, but if you look at her with her father, it's pretty clear that girl was his." Hitch sighed loftily. "Well, not long after little Historia kinda vanished— oh my _god_!"

An explosion of gasps, of whispers and shouts erupted as Bertholdt collapsed. A platter went skittering across the floor, and just as a crowd began to form around the limp body over the tall serving boy, Ymir bumped into Reiss and spilt cocktail sauce across the shoulder of his suit.

"Oh," Ymir said, feigning horror rather well, her dark face crumpling and twisting in mock terror. Mikasa saw a pair of Suits already tripping over themselves to get to her. As she spoke, she thickened her accent purposefully, her eyes glinting. "I'm— I am sorry, _Mister President_." She was grabbed by both men very roughly, and Ymir cried out in Spanish. Mikasa saw the men glance at each other.

"No," Reiss said quickly, shaking his head. "N-no, it's fine, it's— please release her, she didn't do anything wrong."

Ymir was let go, and she kept her head bowed, probably to hide a smirk. Hange had taken a step back, and they peered at Reiss's shoulder. "Hey," they said, "you should put some dish soap on that before it sets into the fibers of the fabric. Y'know, if you don't want it to stain."

"Oh," Reiss said, nodding. "Yes, thank you— M-miss, can you show me to the kitchen?"

"Sir—" One of the men in suits objected.

"It's okay," Reiss said, his voice feeble. Mikasa winced. _Bertholdt_, she thought, _needs to work on his acting_. "It'll only take a moment. I'll be right back."

It wasn't working. Mikasa sighed. Onto the contingency, then. "Is that boy _breathing_?" Mikasa asked very, very loudly. He was, of course— just not enough for anyone to tell. In fact, Bertholdt's heart rate dropped so low that he could be pronounced dead. Skinning was incredibly detrimental to his health, and he'd admitted that when they had planned this entire mission. But his power was too useful to not take the chance. Mikasa was aware that if Bertholdt stayed too long outside his body, he could die. If he stayed too long outside his body, he could die, and the body hosting his soul would spit him out, and he'd be lost in some ethereal void.

That had caught the Suits' attention. "Well," Reiss said— or, rather, Bertholdt in Reiss's body, "go on, make sure he's breathing! He could have had a— a heart attack!"

The Suits ended up shoving through the crowd surrounding Bertholdt as Reiss and Ymir headed for the kitchen. Hitch had disappeared amongst the throng circling Bertholdt, and Mikasa met Hange's eye. They nodded at her, and Mikasa made a break for the bathroom. Hange would not be participating in this part. They were too recognizable to disappear so suddenly. Mikasa's red dress was entirely too conspicuous for this occasion, but thankfully they had planned for this. She entered the bathroom, nodding to the woman standing at the mirror and reapplying her lip-gloss. The woman nodded back cordially, and stopped beside her, waiting for her to leave. She stood for a moment, staring at her dress with all its crimson silk glory, vermillion velvet and cherry chiffon curling around her fingers. Mikasa bit her lip. She missed Eren and Armin.

The woman glanced at Mikasa, and she left without a word. Mikasa quickly checked the stalls for anyone else, and then she moved to the garbage can, popping off the lid and withdrawing a black backpack from its depths of paper towels. She entered a stall and tossed a strap of the bag onto a hook, kicking off her heels and stripping her dress off in one fluid motion. She was more or less used to quick changes into her Nio suit, so this was a simple habit for her. She was fully dressed in about three minutes, and she slipped her Nio mask over her face, shoving her dress and shoes into her backpack and zipping it up. She tossed it back into the trash as she passed the mirror, wisps of blue fabric fluttering against her knees. She hopped up onto the windowsill, which was marble and icy against her toes. She eased the window open, and twisted around when a woman entered and gasped. All she would see, of course, would be Nio crouching beside a window. And promptly disappearing.

It was a rather long drop, surprisingly, and Mikasa's bare feet cracked against the pavement. She went sprinting despite that, and there was a little bit of shock, a mild sense of pain where her joints had taken the brunt of the fall. She passed beneath a cover of trees, her toes scraping against twigs and dry, dead leaves, and she felt like a ghost fluttering through the night, not quite there as the wind bit and tugged and lashed at her.

She came to a little alcove in the trees, and she paused as she watched Ymir circle Reiss with a predatory look upon her face. Mikasa listened to the wind whistle breathlessly through the dying leaves, and when she looked up she saw Sasha's hooded face peering down at her from a branch a few feet above. Her foot was lazily swinging back and forth, and she tossed her bow into the air and caught it with ease.

Ymir caught her eye. "Hey, doll," Ymir said. "Nice of you to show."

Mikasa nodded. Reiss turned to face her, and his expression was a little panicked. "Did anyone follow you?" he asked.

"No," Mikasa said. "Not that we're hard to find. Let's do this quickly."

"Kay," Ymir said. "Get ready to take the back seat, Bertl."

Reiss nodded, and he swallowed very hard. Above Mikasa, Sasha stood up on her branch and notched an arrow. "I'm gonna give you five seconds," Sasha said, taking aim. She pulled her bowstring taut as Reiss knelt down. Reiner was standing on the opposite end of the alcove, looking as though he'd rather be somewhere else. Mikasa didn't blame him. This was a very dangerous mission.

Sasha released her arrow, and it struck Reiss's back, enveloping his torso in tight black mesh netting. He cried out as he hit the ground, and Mikasa turned her back to him as Ymir knelt down in the leaves beside him. As she faced the entrance to the alcove, she could see a blur of green flash through the trees. Connie was circling them in order to keep them alerted if anyone actually showed up.

"Hell-_o_ there, Mister President," Ymir chirped. "Bet you don't know me. It's okay. Not many people do, it's swell."

"W-what…?" Reiss sounded absolutely terrified. "What did you do…?"

"Nothin'," Ymir said. "I mean, _I_ didn't, anyways. Didn't your buddy Father Nick tell you about being possessed?"

Mikasa unsheathed her sword. Connie was coming back. He skidded to a stop beside her, and called out, "Hey, Skinner! There's a Suit heading this way, can you get rid of him?"

Reiss sighed, his body jerking a little as Bertholdt's powers took control. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Is he within fifty feet of me?"

"Uh…" Connie glanced at Mikasa, who stared into the darkness. A silhouette caught her eye.

"Yes," Mikasa said.

"Okay." Mikasa listened to Reiss choke on a gasp, and she watched the silhouette freeze, his body buckling. And then he retreated. When Mikasa glanced back at Reiss and Ymir, the girl was still kneeling, but now she was grinning, her dark face lighting up with a ferocious intensity.

"Okay, cool," Ymir said. "Now I'm sure we'll have more time to talk. I hope you don't mind, it's a bit dark—" Ymir snapped her fingers, and a bright white flame licked at the pads of her thumb and forefinger. Reiss inhaled very sharply, jerking away from Ymir, and she grinned against the eerie glow. "There, that's better, don't you think?"

Reiss said nothing. He'd closed his eyes, and Mikasa could hear him breathing very heavily. She couldn't help but feel that this man was spineless. He was already cracking, and Ymir hadn't even begun her almighty plan to break him. She hadn't told any of them what she was going to say, but she assured them it would do the trick.

"You know who we are," Ymir said. "I don't need to tell you. I just need you to say it. You did this. You made children into monsters."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Reiss said. His voice was steady.

"Take a good look around you, pops," Ymir snapped. "You know who did this. Just say it. You know. You helped. You made children into monsters."

"I did no such thing," Reiss said firmly. "Now, if you let me go now, I'm positive you won't be punished too harshly, miss—"

"You made children into monsters," Ymir repeated, "or did you make monsters into children?"

Mikasa saw Reiss's face flash with minute horror. "What did you say?" he whispered.

"Or maybe," Ymir whispered back, stretching her legs. Twigs cracked against the silence, undisturbed by whatever commotion the gala had fired up. Leaves crunched under her feet as she stood on her toes and rocked back and forth. "Maybe _you're_ the monster, Reiss. Think about it. All this power. And all these secrets." Ymir began to whistle a tune, an old tune, a nursery rhyme Mikasa thought she knew. Reiss's face paled in the flicker of Ymir's flame. "What'd you put in Historia's breakfast that morning, anyway?"

Reiss's head snapped up, and he met Ymir's gaze with horror and awe. "What did you say?" he whispered. His entire body was shaking. Mikasa almost pitied him.

"Historia," Ymir said. "Oh, you remember her, I hope? Your daughter. You know, the one you drugged…" Ymir snapped her fingers, and her fire spat into the air in a burst of steely blue light, balling against the air and recoiling back to a subtle flicker around Ymir's thumb. "Put into a coma…" She snapped her fingers again, and the sound cracked and crackled against the quietude, stretching and gasping painfully, an open flame inhaling and dying upon its first breath. "For four years…"

"That's…" Reiss looked shattered at that moment, and he shook his head furiously. "How dare you…? My daughter is—!"

"Alive," Ymir said, "because you let her be experimented on. Right? Did you get guilty last minute? Or was this your plan all along? To make her perfect. Like a goddess." Ymir smiled wanly, and Mikasa found that smile to be the most enigmatic thing to ever grace her sight. "You wouldn't be the first."

Reiss stared at Ymir wildly. "You…" he said, his voice trembling. "Oh. You know where she is, don't you?" He rose shakily to his feet, and Ymir took a step back. She looked surprised, and she shot a glance at Mikasa. "You know where she is. Of course, she… she told you all of this…" Reiss looked half mad as he stumbled toward Ymir, his arms bound by Sasha's netting. "Please, tell me where she is! I have to explain. She needs to know that I never… I never meant…"

"Nobody ever means to hurt the people they love," Ymir said coldly. "Maybe your problem was you loved her too little… or too much. Maybe you wanted to keep her forever and ever, just the way she was." Ymir's fay-like face glowed eerily, a surreal sight in the canopy of trees, black leaves fluttering around her in the shadow of her fire. She looked very suddenly like a fairytale creature, a woodswitch peering over a cauldron, dried brown leaves catching in her windblown hair, or like a nymph watching with dark, glimmering eyes as nature churned around her and began to break and weather a world that could not remain unchanged. Ymir looked, to Mikasa, like a myth in that moment, a beautiful legend that could not possibly be real. "Or maybe you just wanted to save her."

Reiss exhaled shakily.

"_Yes_," he breathed, "yes, I… I _saved_ her."

Ymir stared at him vacantly. She snapped her fingers, and her fire guttered out with a hiss. "You got that, Brawn?" she asked.

"Every word," Reiner confirmed gleefully. Reiss's voice echoed softly in the vacancy of the alcove, hissing through the falling leaves as it trembled and broke, breathing with the shudder of the wind. "Yes_… yes, I… I _saved_ her_." The recording stopped there, but Mikasa knew it went back for a while.

Reiss stood, trembling like a blackened leaf fluttering from overhead, and he crumbled. "My God…" he murmured, sounding close to tears.

"Maybe," Ymir said, glancing at Mikasa. She jerked her chin, and Mikasa sliced the netting from the man's torso. "But only because you made us this way."

That seemed to shake him. "You'd compare yourselves to gods?" he croaked.

"Gods," Ymir sighed, "monsters, children… It's all the same. You people can call us what you want, but you never treat us like we are."

They were all about to make a break for their getaway jet, parked inconspicuously on a closed car garage roof. It was cloaked so no one would see it, and it was only about a block away. Hange had a plan if Mikasa didn't show up again. Cramps. That was their big plan. And Mikasa figured it would work. They'd find a way to get a hold of Bertholdt too, she was sure.

"And what are you?" Reiss asked miserably. He seemed to have realized the position he was in. He would not tell a soul about them, lest he wanted the recording to get out. It was an unspoken deal.

_Heroes_, Mikasa thought bitterly, turning her back to them.

"Human," Ymir said.

* * *

_You tell 'em, Ymir._

_Upon rereading, it kinda sucks that Mikasa doesn't get to bond with Hange more. I guess I was focusing too much on plot things to really buckle down with that one. But, hey, developments? Some... questions...? And no answers...? I actually can't tell for sure, I'm sorry. I'm terrible. I'm a terrible mystery writer. I should just tell everyone everything now._

_Oh man, next chapter is the chapter! THE chapter! The 20k monstrosity that caused an actual breakdown because it was so hard to write! Angie can confirm, I cried real tears while trying to write that stupid fucking chapter. The absolute worst coming at you. Whoo._


	14. tough body

_**corpus callosum**_

**Philadelphia, Pennsylvania**

_a.d. iv Idus Octobres, 2677 A.U.C._

Too many minds. They grazed him like bullets, leaving blood to pool hot and sticky across his cheeks like red tears, and he hated the metallic aftertaste, the jolt of knowing someone by the flavored thread of their mind. Ice cube shards and dandelions, root beer barrels and rain water, potatoes and pine needles, honey and sun dried figs, chocolate chip cookie dough and cyanide, pepper and baked apples, almond milk and grapefruit, sugar coated whispers and kiwi. Tastes and sensations swirling together in a rapid, overwhelming dissonance.

Firstly, there was Annie. Armin still had trouble recalling her from the blissfully hazy depths of his memory, but he knew that he knew her, and she knew that he'd forgotten. And he thought that maybe she wanted it to stay like that, for the same reason she wanted to stay away from him. Because she feared him. Because his power was something people feared, and that made Armin uncomfortable, because he'd never thought of himself as something fearsome. He wasn't scary, he was just… just… pragmatic.

Annie's connection with Armin was unlike any he'd ever had. Because there was barely a connection. He'd touched her, and cracked a little fissure into her wall of ice, just big enough for his mind to contact hers. But he didn't get the usual blast of negativity, the emotions and the disdain— he got her taste, the painfully chilly brush of a tongue against an ice cube, and the taste of spring air, crisp and heavy with pollen and fresh flowers, and he realized that Annie's taste must have changed since whenever they had last connected, because it was a completely foreign sensation.

Then there was Connie and Sasha. They were like nature had thrown up sugarplums, and they gave him cavities. Jean and Marco were faint thrums of tastes dancing around Armin's mind, mocking him, taunting him, begging him to try and take what he didn't deserve. Their thoughts, their feelings, whatever. Armin avoided them. Their thoughts made Armin's tongue feel heavy, and they were distant, and sweet, but screaming wordlessly, and Armin just didn't want anything to do with them because it was like something was just daring him to tread where he shouldn't, and that terrified him. Reiner was alarmingly natural, but his mind buzzed with anxiety, and Armin hated tuning into his frequency, because it made no sense. It was babble and broken words, broken thoughts, broken blips on a silver screen. Armin saw flashes of red, and he tasted blood, and then he blinked, and it was all gone in a trickle of inconsistent thoughts. Bertholdt just… was incomprehensible.

Armin had too many minds surrounding him. He loved living with Eren and Mikasa, but it was suddenly very overwhelming to have so many thoughts speeding past him when he had once lived alone with Erwin. Whose mind would not yield to Armin's. So now Armin had to avoid getting too close with his new housemates, practically strangers to him, and he would often put on headphones to drown out the hissing, inaudible cacophony. Nobody seemed to notice or worry, though Eren and Mikasa could feel the strain through their unyielding mindlink. They sometimes watched him, their worry palpable in their eyes and in their minds, and he had to shove it away. He didn't want anyone to worry about him. He didn't want anyone to think he couldn't handle this, because… if he couldn't, then what did that mean? What was his use then?

_The Brigade_ had a headquarters in Chicago, which unfortunately had been destroyed by the giant robot attack that was still stealing world news for some reason. Armin felt that no one was asking the right questions. Everyone was focused on the damage done, the economic set back, but no one had once asked who or why. Or even _what_.

After they had gotten home that day from Chicago, a few more kids now taking up residence in the Hange Zoë Home for Peculiar Children, Armin had pulled Annie aside.

"That robot," Armin said, "had your powers."

"What?" Annie glanced him, her droopy eyes flashing in alarm. "What do you mean?"

"It tried to freeze me," Armin said. "It looked at me, and it… it looked like…"

Annie stared at him blankly. Armin could sense her sudden caution, and she tilted her head up at him. "What did it look like?" she asked softly.

_You_, Armin almost said. But he didn't. Because she already knew, and she knew he knew. But neither of them could say it. Even with their feeble, icy link, and the taste of her springtime frost clinging to his tongue, he could not speak to her. He was scared of her, and she was scared of him, and they were stuck because he knew, and she knew that he knew.

But he didn't know what any of it meant, so he smiled tightly, and he said, "It looked like it was alive," he said. _It looked like it was going to cry_, Armin thought. _It looked like you, and you looked like you were going to cry_. That was familiar to him. Had he once seen Annie cry? No, he couldn't imagine.

"That's weird," Annie said dully.

"Yeah," Armin said. He jumped as Eren came bursting into the room, and whistled at them.

"Yo, you two," he said, not even questioning why they were alone together. "One of the newbies wanted to watch _Hercules_. You in?"

"Oh, yeah!" Armin brightened up considerably at the thought. He loved musicals.

Between then and the mission debriefing, Armin had learned a few things about his new housemates. One, Ymir was a little bit of a bitch. She got a kick out of pressing her very warm fingers to Armin's cheek whenever he wasn't paying attention, and he got a blazing sensation, fire enveloping his entire body and licking up his arms and legs and consuming his heart and charring his bones, and when he coughed, blood dribbled from his lips, blood and fire and laughter because _how dare you_, how…? And then Ymir would pull her hand back and _laugh_, as if she'd only pinched him.

Reiner was a vegetarian, and once when Armin had asked if it was for any particular reason, Reiner had responded with a snort. "Well," he said, "I have to be careful with what I eat anyway, because I have a heart condition— a side effect of my power, you know— but man, I cannot even with animals, okay, it physically pains me to imagine killing and eating one."

Armin was beginning to sense a pattern. He spent some time painting with watercolors, trying to remember the pattern when his headaches got bad, but it often made no sense to him. He sat quietly in his room a little after the meeting Hange and Erwin had held to debrief them on their respective missions. Gamma Squad. _The Brigade_. Just reconnaissance. Information gathering too, maybe, if given the chance. Easy stuff.

He turned his music on shuffle, turning it up as he glanced toward the door. He didn't want anyone to hear him. He turned back to his computer, which sat idly at his desk, and he took a deep breath. He hit record.

"Um," he said, the steady sound of One Day More almost drowning him out. "Okay, so this is to me. Future me." He nodded curtly at his webcam. "Because this is important. For me. For you. Yeah…" Armin swung his spinning chair idly, and pulled his legs up to his chest. "So I noticed something recently about our abilities. We, as child experiments, have a five to three ratio of physical, mental, and health defects to the able bodied and minded. And Mikasa and Ymir might not even count, because their abilities are natural."

Armin threw a glance at the door. He dropped one knee, and grabbed the open notebook from beside his keyboard. "Eren Jaeger. His procedure involved a series of injections to the nape of his neck. He spent three months dropping in and out of comas, and when he recovered he was diagnosed with both narcolepsy and diabetes." Armin wrote this down as he spoke, though when he looked down at the words, they didn't look quite right to him. He ignored it.

"Annie Leonhardt. I don't know how her procedure went, because I don't have that kind of access to her mind. Maybe I did once, I don't know, but her skin forms distinctly crystalline blemishes whenever she uses her ability. Her skin also blackens and hardens, like it's frostbitten, but less… ugly. Reiner Braun. His procedure was a series of intravenous injections. He has a heart condition, but I don't know how extreme it is yet. Bertholdt Hoover. His procedure isn't clear to me because his mind is a little too jumbled. I can hear a lot of voices, but none of them are Bertholdt's. He has a mild form of auditory schizophrenia." Armin looked up at his webcam, and he chewed on the cap of his pen thoughtfully. "Armin Arlelt. I was nine when a serum was injected directly into my brain. I now have asthma, when I did not previously." He tossed his notebook back onto the desk. "I also get chronic headaches that are very dull and deep, and nothing seems to take the pain away."

His pen was dangling between his teeth, and he wiggled it pensively. So what was he missing? "Ymir and Mikasa…" Armin murmured. He pulled his pen from his mouth, and he grabbed his phone, flicking through his contacts quickly. He let it dial, and he stuck the phone between his shoulder and cheek as he pulled the notebook back into his lap.

"_Yo_?" Connie asked. "_Armin_?"

"Hi, Connie," Armin said, writing the boy's name down beneath the others. "Um, I have a really weird question to ask."

"_Ooh, this should be good_," Connie said. "_Shoot_."

"No one asked," Armin said, "how you got your speed. So I'm wondering, you know, if… if it's natural, or…?"

"_Oh._" Connie sounded a little surprised. "_Well, uh… okay so when I was eight, I got hit by a car_." Armin's eyes widened, and he quickly put the call on speaker so the recording would pick it up. "_I couldn't move my legs. Like, ever again. That's what the doctors all said, and like, I believed it. But then one day when I wiped out in my wheelchair, I got taken to the hospital, and this nurse lady, Ilse, she came in and talked to me for a little while, and then she like… put some shit in my IV. And the next thing I knew, I was dead, and they had to use those nifty paddle things to bring me back, and when I woke up I was able to move my legs again. Except now I was super fast_."

Armin was a little rattled by how nonchalant Connie was about his own death. "Oh wow," Armin said. "Okay. That's— wait, did you say Ilse?" Armin looked up at his webcam with wide eyes. "What… what did she look like?"

"_Uh_…" Connie groaned. "_Shit, I don't even… that was like six years ago, dude? She had like… dark hair. It was short. And she had a lot of freckles_?"

"_Who_?" Armin heard Sasha ask.

"_Ilse_," Connie told her. "_That crazy nurse that saved me. Oh, and she looked really young. I remember that. And she kinda… man, she was so weird looking, it was like she wasn't even real, like I swear I thought she wasn't until I realized I could move my legs again. Her skin kinda glowed too._"

"_Aw_," Sasha cooed. "_Connie's angel_."

"_Fuck off, Sash'_." Connie sighed. "_Anyway, yeah, that's about all I can remember about her. Why_?"

"Oh," Armin said, biting his lip. He glanced at himself in his recording, his eyes drooping tiredly. His face was a little fuzzy, because Armin was not wearing his glasses. "No reason, I was just taking note of how everyone got their ability. Hey, that Ilse girl, though. Sounds kinda like Ymir, don't you think?"

"_I've never met Ymir_," Connie said. "_I mean, I saw her when we did that video meeting thing earlier, but_…?"

"Right." Armin nodded quickly. "Duh. It's probably just my imagination. Anyway, Connie, thanks for telling me all that. It's got to be a touchy subject."

"_No, not really_," Connie said. "_Yikes, what kind of name is Ymir, anyway_?"

"_What kind of name is Constantino_?" Sasha shot at him.

"_Sasha, __**no**_!" Connie shrieked. Armin smiled, and he spun his chair idly as he listened to Connie and Sasha struggle on the other line. Sasha shrieked. "_Shut the fuck up, stop telling people that, okay? It's getting really— oh my god, she's got Mark's toy helicopter, okay, I gotta go, my mom's gonna kill me if she breaks that_!"

"What is she doing with a toy helicopter?" Armin asked, stifling his laughter.

"_SHE'S FUCKING CHASING ME_!"

Armin couldn't contain his laughter, and he looked at his recording, and he shook his head. He paused it. "You're a speedster," Armin said. "You can take it."

"_I _know, _but_—!"

The door opened, and Armin whirled around in his chair to face Levi. The man glowered at him from the doorway, never passing the threshold. Connie was still shouting from the receiver. "Turn your shitty music off," Levi told him. "It's midnight."

Armin blinked. He hadn't even realized it had gotten that late. He reached back and hit the pause button on his keyboard. "Gotta go, Connie," Armin said, hanging up before the boy could respond. Levi was already closing the door. "Wait!"

Levi paused, and glanced back at Armin. His eyes were narrowed, and they were hollow, and they were piercing. "Um," Armin said, tucking his phone into his pocket. "I was… I was wondering if you could show me the pictures of Ilse Langner you guys found at the institute?"

"Ask Erwin," Levi said. "Not me."

"Right…" Armin said. He pushed his hair behind his ears, and he nodded. He leaned against the door, blinking rapidly as he was overwhelmed with a sudden loss of equilibrium, his heart thundering in his chest as the room shuddered, and the room hissed, and the room shook around him and danced and threatened to cave in on top of him. "Right."

Levi looked at him. The man stepped into the room, and Armin pushed off the door quickly, standing a little shakily as Levi paused. His eyebrows were furrowed, from what Armin could see, but Levi's face was sort of like a white smudge in a bleeding darkness. Armin's head was really, really hurting, and it was worse than usual. _It must be because there're so many people_, Armin thought. _I don't get any peace, not even when I'm asleep. My dreams are theirs_.

"You look gross," Levi said.

"I'm fine," Armin said. "I just got hit with a little bit of vertigo. It happens all the time."

Levi frowned. Armin breathed in deeply, and he felt himself sway a little. But he stayed upright. He'd take a few aspirin, or maybe some Nyquil, and he'd be fine. "Go make Erwin take your temperature," Levi said, whirling away from Armin. "If you're getting sick, you need to stay away from the other kids. I'm not letting a pandemic start under this roof, you got it, blondie?"

"Yes," Armin said weakly.

He felt better once he laid down. Vertigo, headaches, nausea, asthma— his side effects were a nuisance, but it was nothing painfully awful, like schizophrenia, or diabetes, or some obscure heart condition. No, Armin could bear this burden. He had to.

"Hello, Armin," Christa said the morning of their mission. She didn't talk much, the girl who could see and manipulate auras. When they had all explained their powers to one another, Christa had taken a very long time to coherently express what she did. She said that what she saw was a bit like a person's life force. She could take that, and she could make it stronger in order to save a person. Heal wounds, or illnesses. Stuff like that. Armin had wondered why her mind was not reachable, and he realized it was because her power was almost completely mental. Like Erwin, she had a power that counteracted his own. And that was amazing.

"Morning," Armin said. He nudged open a cabinet with his knee and withdrew a box of granola bars. "Did Eren and Levi leave yet?"

"I don't know," Christa said. She sat at the kitchen table, peeling an orange with her thumbnail. "I heard… they were getting an early start because it'll take so long to get there, so maybe."

Armin nodded vacantly. He stiffened as Ymir walked in, and he tried to hide the fact by ripping open a granola bar and sticking it in his mouth. He'd yet to see the pictures of Ilse, and it was bothering him immensely. Ilse Langner, Ymir's supposed grandmother, who had all but a shrine dedicated to her at the institute. No, it wasn't right. There was something he was missing, something he couldn't see. He needed that variable, that clarity.

"Whoa," Ymir said, blinking down at Armin as she fished a granola bar from the box in his hands. "I totally thought you were Christa for just about five seconds. Damn."

"Really?" Christa asked, twisting to face Ymir.

Ymir shrugged. "No," she said. "But almost. You shouldn't wear your hair like that so much." Ymir tussled Christa's low hanging ponytail. "It's confusing."

"Oh…" Christa tore at the skin of her orange, and as Armin chewed his granola bar, he could smell it. The citrus filling the air, burning his nose and stinging his eyes. Armin chewed slowly. He'd woken up with a headache, which was not unusual, but now he was getting the strangest sensation. Like vertigo mixed with a blow from Levi's bony knuckles to the side of Armin's head. Pain spider-webbed through him, striking at his nerves and settling inside his stomach until his gut was fried. It knotted up uncomfortably, and then churned and churned. Armin was still chewing, but the granola was getting caught in his molars, and it wouldn't go down his throat no matter what he tried. So it sat heavily, scratching his tongue.

It tasted like ash. It all tasted like ash. It all felt hot, sweltering, and he felt his clothes turn to writhing flame, and he cowered as a woman reached out, coughing and crawling. Dead woman. There was a voice singing in his head, or whispering, maybe— sugar coated whispers, sugar coated pleas, sugar and fruit and ashes sprinkled on top, an early morning delight. The voice was whispering. Sugar. Ash. Sugar. And the voice was begging, _Make it stop, make the fire stop, please, Ymir, I'll leave, I promise, just make the fire stop_.

_I can't_, he thought wildly, staring down at his naked, flame-engulfed body. He sat in a crumbling kitchen. There was a charring corpse reaching for him. _And besides, you did this, not me_.

Armin shoved Ymir away, her fingers leaving a warm impression on the skin of his forehead. Armin lurched toward the kitchen sink, his fingers finding purchase on the glistening steel, and there was heat crawling all throughout his body, sweat forcing his pajamas to cling to his skinny frame, which buckled as he vomited bile and granola into the shiny metal basin. His stomach spasmed, and released another bout, just enough for him to not be able to catch his breath between the spewing of digestive fluid from his lips.

When he was done, he was heaving, his ribs aching and his legs ready to give out, and as he stared dizzily into the sink, he felt the need to pretend this had never happened. Shame burned him, worse than the fire of Ymir's white-hot memory, and Armin flicked on the faucet to wash the evidence of his incompetence down the drain. It wasn't fair. The only thing he could do was read minds, and even then he couldn't do it right. He got sick because he was too weak to handle the strain.

Armin was still heaving as gathered some water in his cupped palm and attempted to wash his mouth out. He felt a hand on his back, but he couldn't breathe well enough to tell them to stop touching him. He couldn't do it. And when he looked up, water and sick clinging to his lips, he saw Christa and Ymir standing right beside him. Christa reaching up with her orange-stained hands, and she wiped at his mouth with a paper towel. He was still wheezing. There were tears on his cheeks.

"It's okay…" Christa said very softly. Armin stared at her, his shallow breaths echoing in the still kitchen. Christa smiled up at him, and she wiped at his tears with the pad of her thumb. He flinched away from her touch before remembering that she could not hurt him, and then he relaxed, his fingers twitching at his chest as he tried to regain his composure. But he didn't know if he could. He was crying and wheezing in the middle of the kitchen, his throat burning and bile still leaving an acrid residue, and ash still clinging to his tongue, and that only made him cry more. "Ymir, get his inhaler."

"Already ahead of you, _cari__ñ__o_." Ymir held up the small white tube, and Armin wanted to reach for it, but Ymir scared him. He tasted her ashes in his mouth, and he wanted to puke again. "He's got a fever, you know."

"I can feel it," Christa sighed. "Armin, you should go to bed."

He shook his head furiously, and grabbed the inhaler. He took two puffs of it, inhaling deeply, and he rested his back against the sink. He was still breathing very heavily, but the medicine was beginning to take affect. He wiped at his eyes with his sleeve, and he coughed feebly. "T-thanks, Christa…" he mumbled. He threw a glance at Ymir, but she only watched Armin with a knowing gleam in her eye. "… Ymir."

"Don't sweat it," Ymir said. "You seem pretty down, though. Maybe you should skip out on the mission."

"I'll be fine," Armin informed her curtly. His inhaler was clenched in his fist. "All of this is just from my power overloading. You touching me didn't really help…"

Ymir scoffed, and threw her hands up in defense. "I was only checking you for a fever," she said stiffly. "That sorta thing can kill, you know. Especially someone your size."

"I'm fine," Armin repeated. He glanced at Christa, who watched him with large, worried eyes. "Really. I'll take some Tylenol, and the fever will go right away. You'll see."

"Okay…" Christa nodded slowly. "If you say so, Armin."

"Can you two…" Armin looked between them, feeling suddenly very panicked. "Can you not tell anyone about this? If Erwin finds out, he'll bench me for sure."

Christa looked uncertain, but Ymir nodded. "Yeah, sure," she said with a shrug. Her limp brown her curled across her cheeks as she tilted her head. "But you'll owe me one, buddy boy."

Armin wanted to ask what the ash meant. He wanted to ask her why there was something so horrible in her head. It was one of the most terrible things he had ever witnessed, and he'd only caught a bare glimpse of it, a flicker in a dark, a whisper too sweet to be kind. Armin looked at Ymir, and he realized.

"I'm going to go lay down, actually," Armin said, brushing past both girls. _Bertholdt_, Armin realized, _has possessed Ymir_. But the trouble was that Armin had no idea when or why or what that even meant to him.

They had to pick up Jean and Marco in Chicago and debrief them on how the mission was going to play out. Erwin had already informed them that they were not to engage if they met with any resistance upon entering _The Brigade's_ headquarters in Philadelphia. They were already playing it very close by simply scheduling this mission the same night as Beta Squad's mission. If Beta Squad failed, if they got caught, it would already throw major suspicion onto them.

"Where are your glasses?" Erwin asked Armin as he sat beside him in the cockpit of Hange's plane. He was in charge of making the plane invisible upon take off.

"Contacts," Armin said. He was studying the fibers of his gloves, the brown stains from his or Eren's blood set into the grooves of white thread. Written unsteadily across the dull, faded brown smear, _I can sleep in heaven_. Armin wondered what that was from. It could be anything. He didn't remember the context. He didn't know why his mind was manipulating the ink inside his suit to form those words. Armin didn't know very much, really, he just knew tastes and sensations and bits of information caught in the spider web that was his fractured mind.

Christa and Annie were sitting behind them. They weren't talking. It was so strange, this plane ride, because Armin's mind was so clear. There was no noise, no taste except for the trace of frosty spring air that leaked through the crack Armin had jabbed through Annie's wall of ice. And yet, for all the vacancy in the frequencies, Armin was lost. His head was somewhere else. His heart was not in it.

"We haven't done a mission together in a while," Erwin said, glancing at Armin. Armin stayed silent. He watched the clouds, and words twitched on his white gloves, crawling across bloodstains and laughing at him. If he watched the clouds long enough, the fluffy white bits of water condensed into these blinding, taunting shapes, perhaps they would become words too. "In fact, we haven't talked much at all lately."

"There's not much to talk about," Armin said. A lie. Armin wanted to tell him about Annie. The robot that had looked like her, had her power. The robot that had looked at him intelligently, known him, and tried to freeze him. He wanted to tell Erwin about Ilse Langner and Ilse the nurse who had saved Connie Springer, and he wanted to tell Erwin of Ymir's ashes and the corpse reaching, reaching, reaching, dead woman, sad woman, too charred to save. He wanted to say something about Bertholdt's possession of Ymir, something that had echoed in Ymir's hot touch, her skin leaving red skinny burns on Armin's pale forehead. Armin wanted to talk about the defects, that they were all defective except for Christa. That Armin was having trouble reading. Remembering. That his powers were consuming his entire being, and he couldn't stop it. He wanted to tell Erwin that he didn't want to be Cicero anymore.

"How's school?" Erwin asked.

"Fine."

"Just fine?"

"I'm ahead in all of my classes, and taking three courses outside of the curriculum," Armin said quietly. "It's fine, Erwin."

"I'm not talking about your grades, Armin," Erwin said very gently. Armin was reminded of sitting in Erwin's car years before, and Erwin reassuring him that he was powerful.

"Then I have no idea what you're talking about." He pulled his hood up over his head, his hair in a ponytail as it usually was when he dressed as Cicero.

"Are you getting enough sleep?" Erwin asked him.

"I don't know, Erwin," Armin sighed, pulling up his knees and hugging them tightly. "You're the psychic one, you tell me."

Erwin looked at Armin sharply, and Armin felt suddenly ashamed. He hadn't meant it. _What's wrong with me today?_ Armin thought miserably. Maybe his problem really was that he wasn't getting enough sleep. He hadn't thought about that, but he always stayed up very late, and woke up very early, and never thought anything of it. He'd over slept today, though. That rarely happened. _I'll go to bed earlier, then_.

"I can't, Armin," Erwin said softly.

_He can't?_

"You can't see my future?" Armin asked. He stared straight ahead. "You've never told me that before."

"I never wanted to worry you about it," Erwin said. "But it seems that now… well, the fact is, Armin, you interfere with my precognition. You never used to, but now if you are in the future I need to see, you blot it out."

Armin dropped his legs and twisted to face Erwin in horror. "Wait, what?" he asked. "How long has this been going on?"

"It was on and off for a few months," Erwin said, "but it's been steady for weeks."

"So you can't see any future with me in it?" Armin asked. "None?"

Erwin smiled a little. "It can't be helped," he said. "Your abilities are far more useful than mine. If it's between my knowing the outcome of a mission, and you participating, there is no question. You're more important."

"Because I can trick people's minds?" Armin shook his head furiously. "But, Erwin—"

"Can you see my future?"

It was Christa who had spoken, soft and curious, her long purple cloak gathering around her tiny body. Vitae, she called her hero persona. Fitting.

"I can," Erwin said. "So long as Armin isn't in it."

"How far ahead can you see?" Christa asked. "A week? A month? A year? A decade? Can you see when I die? When Annie dies? Can you—"

"My power has many limitations," Erwin said. "Like Armin, I have trouble with the multitude of possibilities my ability offers me. While Armin hears thoughts like frequencies, I see futures like build-boards passing on the street, or spines of books on a shelf. There's nothing but a glimpse into what knowledge could be attained from taking a closer look. More often than not, I choose not to."

Armin sat and listened, because this was all so interesting. He knew some things about Erwin's powers, little things, but this was something else entirely. Armin had always felt that Erwin was the more powerful one, that Erwin's power was the eerie one. But now he saw it was the other way around. Armin's telepathy was something dangerous, and it was too strong for him to keep it contained. He knew that. He could feel it slipping from his grip.

"So how come you can see my future, but Armin can't read my mind?" Christa asked. "And what about Annie?"

When Armin looked back, he saw that Annie was sitting with her droopy eyes fixed on him. Christa was watching Erwin, her pale hair framing her round face, and her pink lips parted in confusion. Armin wondered what was so special about her. The healer, the result free of imperfections. The only one.

"It's possible," Erwin said, "that Armin's ability has formed a self-defense mechanism to keep out any foreign minds from manipulating his own."

"But my power doesn't affect his mind," Christa said. "It's just his aura— his life. I don't really care if he can read my mind or not, but the fact that I can't see his life force is… it's very, very troubling for me, because I won't be able to heal him if he ever needs healing."

"You don't have to worry about me, Christa," Armin said very gently. He was surprised that he had to say it. "I'm invisible more often than not, so it'd be hard for anyone to hurt me."

"You don't know that," Christa said, her eyes flashing to him desperately. Annie sighed from her seat beside the smaller blonde, and Armin glanced at her. Christa did too. "What is it, Annie?"

"Just accept that your power is no use to him," Annie said, resting her head back in her chair.

"What?"

"Just accept it," Annie said, her icy blue eyes closing. "If you can't save him, you can't save him. Whatever. Let him take care of himself."

Armin stared at Annie, and she stared back. _Thanks, Annie_, Armin said to her, though he didn't know why. He wasn't really grateful, but he felt like it was the thing to say. And she winced at his voice in her head.

_Why are you thanking me?_ she asked, her voice distant and crackling inside his head. _I'm just telling her that when you die, it won't be her fault_.

"Oh," Christa said. She sounded disheartened, and Armin wondered what she was thinking.

_You think I can take care of myself_, Armin said. He felt as though he was pressing his hands against her wall of ice, and trying to peer through it to see her face. And she was shrinking on the other side, too shy to come out and face him.

_I think you have that ability_, Annie said. Her eyes flickered as they moved from his face to the window. _I don't think you know how to use it, though_.

Armin almost rolled his eyes. He turned back to face the cockpit, his hood falling over his eyes. _Right_, he said. He couldn't help but sound bitter.

He wasn't sure what Annie meant, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know. He liked Annie fine, but he felt as though she knew something that he'd forgotten, and it was like an itch in his heart that he couldn't scratch. It nagged him, and taunted him. Armin felt very nauseous all of a sudden as he looked down at his hands. Bloodstains popped out against blinding white fabric, and ink pooled across the faded brown grooves, laughing at his ignorance. _'Tis in my memory lock'd_, his mind told him. _And you yourself shall keep the key of it_.

Armin wanted to slap himself in the face.

_I'm sorry_, Annie said suddenly. Armin whirled around to look at her, and he sensed both Christa's and Erwin's eyes on him. But he was surprised. _I didn't mean it like that_.

_Then how the hell did you mean it, Annie?_ Armin asked.

_I don't know_, Annie said. _I'm sorry, okay?_

Armin was feeling suddenly very anxious, because she was watching him, and he could sense the crack in her wall, and he could sense her behind it, peering through the hole at him and almost, almost, _almost _willing to let him see what she was so keen on hiding.

_I knew you before_, Armin said, turning around in his seat so Erwin would stop glancing at him. _Didn't I?_

_I don't know what you're talking about_.

Armin watched his own handwriting tremble on his fingers. There were sonnets playing like symphonies across his shaky hands, and down his sides, and he could feel the vibrations of music and taste the words, but he could not read them very suddenly. It was too hard to squint through the blotted, inky mess.

_At the institute_, Armin said. _We knew each other better, then. I know we did. But I forgot, and you just let it go. Why is that?_

_I don't know what you're talking about_, Annie told him. Her voice felt like snowflakes gathering on the windowsill of his mind.

_I just mean_, Armin said, _that you've been in my head before_.

_I really don't know what you're talking about, Armin_, Annie said. He felt her presence fading, as if she didn't want to be so close to him any more. It was sad to feel. But Armin turned around and smiled at her.

"We're almost there," he said. _You're a liar, Annie_.

"Good," Annie said, her eyes narrowing. _At least I know when I'm lying_, Annie said to him. Her voice rang in his head long after she spoke to him, and she felt their connection begin to ice over. Her wall was pressing into his head, biting at his senses, and he exhaled sharply, his teeth beginning to chatter from the sensation. He felt as though he'd been pushed into an icy pool, a tiny hand forcing his head beneath the inky, fragile surface of a frosting pond and keeping it under, coaxing him to keep under, even as his body began to fight the sensation, and he could not think or breathe. _We used to be friends_.

Armin pressed his gloved, inky, bloodstained hands to his ears, and he moaned aloud. "I know…" he mumbled, his lips trembling and turning blue. There was ice crawling across his eyes. Water clogged his ears, and froze around his eardrums. His heart was thudding in iamic pentameter. _Hamlet_, Armin realized. _My hands are reading me Hamlet. "There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; when down her weedy trophies and herself fell in the weeping brook." _"I know…"

"Armin." He felt a hand brush his shoulder. He shrugged Erwin off, and shook his head furiously.

"I'm f-f-fine," he said. He said it, and his voice caught in his throat. He wanted to cry. _Annie, stop_.

_You first_.

_You're hurting me_, Armin said, his head pounding, his thoughts slowing, his breath misting across the air as he tried to grasp what was happening. What the hell was Annie doing? What the hell was he doing? This was foolish, and he knew it, but he wanted to know what Annie was hiding, because he knew, and she knew he knew, and now they were at a stalemate, and he was freezing, and she was freezing, and he wanted to cry.

And then it stopped. The ice, and the weight, and the shivering emptiness that came with Annie's offensive. But Ophelia still drowned. That was written on his arms, and crawling down his sides.

"What is going on with you two?" Erwin asked. His eyes were forward, and Armin looked at him as he inhaled deeply, and exhaled shakily. "Tell me what you're talking about."

They were both silent for a solid ten seconds, and Armin shivered as they both turned toward the window. "The institute," they said in unison.

_Do you hate me? _Annie asked.

_No_, Armin said. He could feel his mind thawing, and it hurt to think._ I don't hate you_.

_You're an idiot,_ Annie said.

_And you're a liar_, Armin replied.

_Stop talking to me in my head_, she said sharply. _If you want to talk, talk. Stop using your power on me, and I won't have to use mine on you_.

Armin hadn't considered that. He still felt numb, but he turned around to face her anyway, keenly aware of Christa and Erwin. "I'm sorry," he said to her.

She shifted in her seat, looking a little guilty. "So am I," she said. They watched each other, and he was so suspicious of her, and she was so aware of it, but neither of them did a thing.

Armin didn't understand what they were doing. He felt like they were both tiptoeing around the truth, a truth he knew but couldn't touch, and a truth she knew but wanted to ignore. It was terrible. They were terrible.

They landed the plane on a parking garage roof. Marco and Jean were already sitting there, waiting for them apparently, and Erwin quickly went through their objective again. Annie tried to drift away from him, but he cut in front of her, blinking down at her a little desperately, hoping to amend for his previous mistake.

"I still think of you as a friend, you know," he told her very quietly. She stared at him, and glanced at Erwin and Jean and Marco and Christa. Christa and Marco were looking at them.

"How sweet of you," Annie said dully.

"If it really bothers you that much," Armin said, "I won't talk to you in your head anymore."

"Thanks, I guess."

Armin wanted to punch himself. He wanted to scream and tear his hair out, because his head hurt, and his heart hurt, and she wasn't understanding, and he couldn't understand her, and it was terrible. They were terrible, he and Annie, and they both knew it.

"Okay," Armin said, feeling awkward and embarrassed. "Well, I thought you should know. That you're still my friend. Even if I don't remember us being friends before."

"And even though you don't trust me?" she whispered. Armin stared at her, and his eyes darted to Erwin. But he hadn't heard. Armin could tell by the way he carried himself.

"Do you trust _me_?" he whispered back, turning his face to her. She said nothing. It was as if she couldn't understand what he was saying. She looked vacant and bored with his words. "Maybe that's our problem. Do you think so?" He was surprised at how nice it was to ask what she was thinking instead of knowing by default. It was refreshing.

"Maybe. And what would you do if I trusted you?" she asked. They were still whispering, because this was a secret, their unspoken suspicion. "You would hate me."

"I'm sure I wouldn't," Armin said gently.

"You're supposed to be smart," Annie whispered, her eyes moving from his face to the ground. "But you're so stupid. I'll be your friend, Armin. But there are some things you're better off not knowing."

He shook his head. No, he didn't believe that. He couldn't. "I want to trust you, you know," he said, feeling desperate and cold. They'd wandered so far from the group that Armin couldn't even hear Erwin talk about the objective anymore. The objective was, of course, to get as much information as they could out of _The Brigade's_ database about Reiss or even the institute, as confirmation of their involvement in the experimentation. "I mean, I don't think you're hiding this from me to be cruel."

They walked quietly for a few moments along the wall separating the parking garage roof from a very long drop. The sun was setting, and Annie had stopped to watch the Chicago skyline. It looked a bit like fire blooming across the clouds and the city, and catching on the chunks of twisted metal and glass from the robot attack. Annie glanced behind them at Erwin and the others, and Armin could see her go rigid.

"Armin," she said suddenly, whirling to face him. "Do you think I'm a good person?"

Armin stood for a moment, alarmed. His mind felt cold, but he could almost taste her fear, sour as it crept across her mind and breathed through the hole he'd punctured in her head. He pitied her at that moment, because she was so isolated, and she was so lonely, and she was giving that to him, these feelings, this desperation, this fear of being found, this fear of being caught like a wolf in a trap.

He realized that she needed to open up to people more. She was decaying inside her head. He could taste the decomposition, the wilting of dandelions and the oncoming blizzard that would force all growth to cease.

"I don't know if I really like the implications of saying anyone is a good or bad person," Armin said slowly. "If I said yes, I think you're a good person, I might just be saying that because I think you're good to me, or for me, while the opposite might mean you don't benefit me or conform to my ideals. And I don't think it's fair for me to say, because I can't just judge you without any support to base my opinion on."

"It sounds like you just don't want to answer my question," Annie said flatly.

Armin smiled, and it was genuine, because he realized she was teasing him. _We should talk more_, Armin realized. "I think you're a person, Annie," Armin said. "Good or bad, I don't know. I don't know if I'm a good person. I'm probably not, by most standards, but that doesn't really matter. Because my goal is to do the right thing, even if it's not always the good thing." He bit his lip, and he looked down at her. She was nodding.

"Okay," she said quietly. She shot a glance toward the others, and said very quickly, "Armin, there's something I need to tell you."

Had he convinced her, then? To trust him, or to begin to at the very least? Was this it, then? Had he succeeded in swaying her to his side? Or was she going to be even more cryptic about whatever it was she had to say?

"What is it?" Armin asked, unable to contain his curiosity.

"I'll tell you when we get home." She turned away from him. "It's… not something you'll want to hear right now. But I'll tell you, because I'm going to trust you."

"Thank you," Armin said weakly, a little surprised. He hadn't expected to gain much from her, but he'd hoped.

"Don't," Annie said. "Just… promise that you'll trust me too."

"Okay," Armin said, watching her back. "I promise."

"Hey guys!"

Annie jumped, and she whirled around with flashing eyes as Marco appeared at Armin's side. She stared at him, and Armin could sense her unease. Armin couldn't help but feel a little uneasy too. _How long was he standing there?_ Armin wondered. He hadn't even felt his presence, but then again, Armin's mind was too muddled to differentiate tastes and presences and thoughts at this point.

"Hello," Armin said. "Are we leaving now?"

"Um, in a few," Marco said. He had a new suit, courtesy of Hange, which was made for his agility, but also made to be bullet proof. Armin's suit was not. "What are you two up to?"

"Talking," Armin said. "You and Jean know your job, right?"

"Of course," Marco said, smiling wanly. "Official look outs and-or body guards. Hopefully it doesn't come to that, though."

"Erwin's a pacifist," Armin said, "and I can't fight. So you have to understand how important your roles are."

"Oh, don't worry," Marco said quickly, his warm eyes growing wide. "I'm really excited about this, actually. Jean's the one who's a bit put out."

"Let me guess," Annie said dryly. "He thinks we got the soft gig."

"Well, I guess it is," Marco admitted, "next to kidnapping and interrogating the president, and travelling overseas."

"I wonder how that's going," Armin said quietly, glancing over the Chicago skyline, feeling the weight of something greater beyond it.

"Yeah, I wonder," Marco said. He looked at Annie, and he smiled. "I don't think we've really gotten a chance to talk before, Annie."

"No," Annie said, looking at the horizon and frowning. "I guess not."

"I wish I could get to know all of you better," Marco said sadly. "I really do, because then this would be so much easier."

Annie looked at him. Armin could sense her uncertainty, and he thought perhaps she didn't know what to make of Marco. Armin wasn't sure either. Marco was a stranger, really, but a kind one. And Armin knew Mikasa trusted him— she'd even compared Armin and Marco at one point, which was a little flattering, because Armin didn't think he was as kind as this boy was, not nearly.

"You can get to know all of us better," Armin reassured him. "I mean, we've only gotten to really see each other once. The more missions we go on, the better we'll be acquainted."

"True," Marco said. His warm face and his warm eyes were glowing in the reflection of the dying sun, and Armin watched his face, his freckles dancing as he smiled. He noticed dimples caving into his cheeks.

"I think I'm going to go talk to Augur about my job here," Annie said, turning away from them. "Or maybe I'll just shatter my leg so I can go home."

"What was that, Annie?" Marco asked.

"I said I'm going to go talk to Augur."

Armin stared at Annie's back as she retreated toward their squad leader, and he couldn't help but feel a little taken aback by her behavior. Armin rubbed his temples, his headache only deepening as time went on. He could still feel residual traces of Annie's mental attack, and it still stung. Annie was giving him frostbite.

"Is she okay?" Marco asked suddenly.

"Yeah, I think so," Armin said, still massaging his forehead. Marco nodded, his eyes flickering across Armin's face.

"Are _you _okay?" Marco asked, his eyebrows rising. His suit was red and white, a winged lion perched upon his chest surrounded by expertly curling stitches that wove around his ribs. It was a very pretty design, for a hero costume, but it was something easily noticed. Armin knew, of course, this was the flag of the Republic of Venice. Home of San Marco's Basilica. Hence, Marco's choice of a moniker. It made a lot more sense when put into this perspective.

"Yeah, I think so," Armin repeated weakly, dropping his hands to his sides. "Just a little headache."

Marco was still smiling, but Armin saw it falter a little. Something sad flickered in his warm eyes, which melted like chocolate chips in cookie dough. Armin was confused by the tastes of Marco's thoughts because he couldn't really hear his thoughts, they were just a buzz in his head, like a fly brushing his ear and zipping away. The frequency was all jittery.

"Is it because of your power?" Marco asked softly.

Armin looked at Marco in astonishment. "How did you…?" he asked faintly. Marco just laughed, and he shook his head.

"Mikasa told me," he explained. "I mean, I already knew about your power, duh, but I know it's not very kind to you."

"It's a pain," Armin admitted. "I have good days, but today I feel like I can't control it at all."

Marco's eyes sparkled with curiosity, and he shot a glance over at Erwin and Christa and Jean and Annie. He looked back at Armin, and he tilted his head. "Can I try something?" he asked.

Armin blinked confusedly. "What do you me— hey, don't!" Armin tore his wrist from the boy's grasp, and he hugged his arm to his chest, feeling horrified and alarmed. His heart was beating very hard, because he could not deal with someone else touching him today, he could not handle that kind of strain. He would pass out, undoubtedly, or worse. "Please don't touch me, okay? Just don't."

"It's okay," Marco said very gently. He was reaching very slowly for Armin's hand again. "Please relax and trust me. I just want to try something. It won't hurt you."

"You don't understand," Armin said briskly. "You don't get it. Touching me is like setting off a bomb inside my head. Except instead of shrapnel, emotions go flying. Memories that aren't mine get buried into my frontal lobe and my temporal lobe and all down my corpus callosum, and tastes crash into my mouth and kick my teeth into my throat and roll on my tongue, and thoughts that don't belong to me get stuck rattling in my head, and even though I know they're not mine, they feel like they're mine, and I lose part of myself every single time." Armin took a deep breath, his eyes squeezing closed, and he felt cookie dough melt on his tongue. Sugar was lodging in his teeth, and chocolate chips dug into the inside of his cheek. "So please. Please don't touch me."

"Armin," Marco said. Armin stared at him. His skin was prickling at the sensation of cold air meeting his pores, goosebumps rising around Marco's long fingers. Armin looked down at his own bare wrist in Marco's grasp, his glove clenched in his right fist. He hadn't even realized. He couldn't even feel Marco's fingers digging into his wrist, two fingers pressing down beside a vein. Armin was awed, his eyes darting confusedly from Marco's fingers against the pulse of his wrist, to Armin's glove in Marco's fist, to the pale hair that stood on end as goosebumps formed across his forearm.

"H-how…?" Armin whispered. No, this wasn't right. It wasn't possible. With Erwin or Christa, yes, this could happen, but there was no possible way that Marco could initiate physical contact with Armin and not cause an unintentional connection. "That's amazing… I didn't even feel that, I—" He broke off, as his heart began to thud in his chest, and Marco dropped his wrist as though it had caught aflame. "What did you _do_?"

"I just distracted you," Marco said, blinking down at Armin innocently. "You were so busy talking about how bad it'd be if I touched you, you didn't even notice that I already was. I wanted to try it to see if maybe your heartbeat had an effect on how your powers respond to people, and as far as I could tell your heartbeat was very steady until you realized I was touching you."

Armin didn't think that sounded right. It contradicted everything he knew about his power. "You think I psych myself out with my powers," Armin realized. "You think I make it out to be worse than it really is to the point where it becomes as bad as it seems. Right?"

Marco was still watching Armin with that innocent gleam in his eye. "I just think you should relax," Marco said, "and let people in more. That's all."

Armin bit his tongue to keep himself from saying something very bitter. "Thanks, but I think I'll just keep the gloves," Armin said, reaching out for the one Marco had stolen. Marco handed it back, his fingers brushing Armin's knuckles, and Armin could taste something on his thoughts, something vague and hidden from the stretch of Armin's reach. Marco was strange, and a stranger, and Armin could feel the boy's sadness beneath the layers of false comfort.

"Whoa there," Jean said, approaching with his lax posture and honeycomb taste. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Why don't you try touching Jean, Armin?" Marco suggested eagerly.

Armin felt his gut clench in terror. "No way," Armin squeaked, yanking his glove back onto his hand and putting a good yard of distance between him and Marco and Jean. "I've had enough people touch me for today, thanks."

"Oh, please don't be mad," Marco gasped, looking down at Armin in shock. "I didn't think you'd react badly. And, you didn't, did you? I was right, you were absolutely fine."

Armin didn't respond. Because he didn't feel fine, but he didn't want anyone worrying about him either. "Look…" Armin said, glancing between Jean and Marco hurriedly. "Just because something worked for you doesn't mean it'll work for Jean. Everyone's mind is different."

"What exactly were you doing?" Jean asked, his brow furrowing. Marco looked a little sheepish, and he opened his mouth to respond, but Jean quickly cut in with a wave of his hand. "Wait. No. I don't want to know. Anyway, Augur says we're heading out. You two game?"

"Sure," Marco said. He was watching Armin with a crumpling expression. "Armin?"

"Cicero for right now," he said, rubbing his wrist subconsciously. He realized that Marco was staring at him with concern clear in his flickering eyes, and Armin managed a feeble smile. "I'm not angry. Your theory is actually something I never considered, and I'd like to pursue that possibility, that physical contact hasn't got to be something painful for me, or that my heartbeat determines how powerful my ability is." He pulled his hood over his face, and nodded eagerly. "I think that's a very interesting take on it, and it's not outside the realm of plausibility."

"Um…" Jean said, "what?"

"His power," Marco sighed, his shoulders slumping a little. "I wanted to check his power. Because, you know, he's sensitive to physical contact because of his telepathic abilities."

"Whoa, really?" Jean quirked an eyebrow. "Weird."

Armin shrugged. Was it weird? He had to suppose so, but he was so used to avoiding skin contact, even if he somehow could control his ability, it would make no difference. Armin would probably still flinch every time someone brushed his shoulder, or bumped into him. Armin would still cover himself in layers and layers of clothing to put a distance between his flesh and the itching, bleeding, biting thoughts of others.

They all wandered back to the plane, and Christa hopped up beside him eagerly, her deep purple cloak fluttering around her skinny frame. "You should drink more tea," Christa said, pulling up her velvet hood over her flaxen hair. A yellow strand curled around her bright blue eyes, and Armin watched her in wonder. _What are you thinking?_ he found himself musing. It was amazing to him to have to wonder, because it was rare that was so utterly out of his grasp of understanding.

"Why?" Armin asked, glancing at Annie as she passed him. She didn't look his way, nor acknowledge him at all, and she boarded the plane in her chilly silence. Jean and Marco were chatting rather loudly behind them, and Armin gripped his hood in order to keep the biting Chicago winds from flinging it from his head.

"It might make you feel better…" Christa said softly, looking suddenly nervous. "You… you aren't feeling better, are you?"

Armin stared at her. He felt Erwin's eyes glued to his back, and felt the scrutiny and the suspicion. And Christa merely wrung her tiny little hands, biting her lip as she searched Armin's face. She looked so concerned for him, it was startling. It was as though she was the mindreader, and he was left to play victim.

"I'm fine," he assured her gently. He clambered onto the plane, and offered out his hand to her. She smiled, and took it gladly, hefting herself up and through the open door.

"Okay," she said, plopping down beside Annie. Her plum colored cloak spilt across the seat around her, and Armin decided to sit beside her instead of near Erwin. The man was watching Armin, and that was not something that he could deal with. Because Erwin was worried. Armin could sense that, even without his power, because Erwin's eyes were constantly roving back to Armin's face. "If you say so…"

"Are you not feeling well?" Marco asked as he took a seat across from Armin.

Armin buckled his seatbelt. Marco's thoughts were beginning to rush, and Armin caught sense of his concern. They tasted saccharine and warm, and they melted the residual ice that clung to Armin's rattled mind. Jean sat beside Marco, playing with the Velcro straps that held his utility pouches to his hips. He didn't seem to be used to his new outfit yet.

"I have a headache," Armin said, ignoring Erwin as he closed and secured the door, and then crossed between them to get to the cockpit. The man's hard blue eyes met Armin's but Armin could not find the strength to hold the gaze, so he turned his face away. "But I almost always do, so it's not a big deal."

"I can make you tea when we get home," Christa offered, glancing up at Armin's face. "If you'd like, I mean. Green tea should help with your migraine, and vomiting—"

"Oh, wow, really?" Armin feigned his interest, if only to stop her from talking anymore. His heart was beginning to beat very hard, because Erwin was watching him. The gaze had turned from suspicious to suddenly knowing, so very knowing, as though Erwin could sense the fear in Armin's face, in his shaking voice and fingers. Why had she brought up the vomiting? Why couldn't she have left that where it was? "You must know a lot about medicine."

Christa shifted, her eyes moving to Erwin's back. He'd sat down, and was thankfully no longer looking at Armin, but he felt as though he was going to be sick again. He hated it when Erwin worried about him, because when Erwin worried, there was likely something wrong that Armin could not fix. Christa's eyes darted back to Armin's face, and she looked so apologetic that he couldn't be angry with her.

"I don't know nearly as much as I should," she said quietly, folding her hands in her lap. "I'm… very reliant on my power. I never get sick. And I can take away sickness, usually, so I've never had to go looking for medicine for Ymir, or anything like that. That's why I feel a little…" She chewed nervously on the skin of her lower lip, and Armin watched her teeth tear at the delicate epidermis. "Responsible, almost, for not being able to take away some of your pain."

He almost laughed in response to that. But he couldn't blame her. If their places had been reversed, Armin would feel the same, and he knew it. If his powers were something beneficial to life like Christa's were, he'd feel an intense amount of guilt for not being able to alleviate the pain of someone ailing. So Armin did understand where Christa was coming from, and it saddened him, because he wished she could do it. He wanted her to take the migraine away, the nausea, the dizziness of thoughts that were not his own.

"Why would you feel responsible for shit like that?" Jean asked, resting his ankle on his knee. "If you can't heal him, that's not your fault."

"No…" Christa sighed. "No, but I feel bad anyway, because… because what good is my power if I can't help people with it?"

"Don't be so hard on yourself, Christa," Marco said gently. "You have an amazing gift, but it doesn't work on everyone. And that's okay."

"Yeah," Armin said, nodding slowly. "Don't worry about me, okay, Christa? I'm so used to migraines, it's not even a big deal anymore."

Christa glanced at him, and he knew she didn't believe a word he said. "It's not a gift," she said. She stared vacantly out a window as Erwin warned them of their impending take off. "Not really."

"You can heal people," Marco said, his eyes flashing very wide. "You save lives. That in itself is something so incredible, and you don't think it's a gift?"

Christa looked a little nervous as she shook her head. "Oh," she whispered. "Well, yes, that's… that's nice, but… it's not that simple…"

They all fell quiet as the plane took off, and Armin's back pressed heavily into his seat, his head pounding viciously as his ears rung from the rattling of wind against the wings of the airplane, battering on the windows and hissing softly for Armin to open up, open up, open up a little…

They were silent for a good portion of time, sitting anxiously in wait for their mission to begin. They had such a simple task. Armin wondered if he felt so anxious because he knew he wasn't going to be at the top of his game, or because he was working in such a foreign environment. He had gotten to know Christa well enough in the short time he'd known her, and Annie was a familiar enigma, but Jean and Marco were a strange and uncertain variable in Armin's plan. He could not tell if their mission would succeed with the unfamiliarity of this squad.

Armin was beginning to tune into scraps of thoughts drifting from Marco's mind and Jean's as well. Words, mostly, blipping into existence and bubbling to the surface of Armin's mind, hissing at him and then dissipating with a great, sudden pop. And Armin was left to confusedly sort all the wonderings and how comes and what am I doings, and they weighed heavily in his mouth. They tasted hot, burning the flesh off the roof of his mouth, and the words just kept coming in an onslaught of awkward, nervous ramblings that could not be discerned. And Armin was stuck with it. He rubbed his forehead, swallowed thickly, and looked up at the ceiling, and down at his hands, and breathed in deeply, and breathed out shakily, because there was nothing that he could do to ease this pain.

They were all doing their separate things for a little while, and the sun disappeared behind the fat, swelling gray clouds, and they were drenched in a bluish darkness that floated around their faces and framed their flesh in a chilly glow. Armin had pulled off his gloves to rub the skin of his wrist, which was not hurting by any means, but rather it was prickly and itchy, gooseflesh forming beneath Armin's tiny fingers. Marco was watching him. His expression was apologetic.

"I didn't mean any harm by it," he said suddenly. Armin glanced at him.

"It's okay," Armin assured him. "Really. I understand what you were trying to do."

"What did he do?" Christa asked, looking rather curious. Annie was not looking, but Armin could tell she was listening.

"He touched my arm," Armin said, "to prove that I can be touched without accidentally forming a connection with someone."

"That's bullshit," Annie said. Armin looked over Christa's head at her, stunned, but Annie simply looked straight ahead with squared shoulders and a raised chin.

"It worked, though," Armin said quietly. "So maybe it's not all that farfetched."

Annie looked from Armin to Marco. She shook her head furiously, and she tugged the glove off her left hand. Armin sunk into his seat, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he saw her arm reach carefully over Christa's lap.

"Annie, no," he said. "Don't prove him wrong."

Annie paused, her blackened fingers resting against the inky, swirling script that wrote Armin's heart in a series of quotes that he could not fully understand, not at this moment, not when everything was so muddled. He was so confused, and his head hurt, and Annie was pulling Armin's gloves into her hands and drawing back from him. They watched each other, and Armin itched to ask her why she was acting so strangely, if it was because of what she needed to tell him, and he itched to speak aloud and ask the question that was plaguing him. _What are you thinking, Annie?_ he wanted to say. _Tell me what you're thinking_.

"So, like," Jean said, cocking his head at Armin, "if you can't touch people, how the hell are you ever gonna have sex?"

Armin nearly laughed aloud. What a juvenile thing to ask. So invasive and inane, and yet Armin was smiling, feeling as though he'd been given a test he'd slaved and stressed over for so long, that sitting down and looking upon it was far less daunting than he could ever imagine. It was, in fact, relieving. Because Armin had thought about this before, and he'd had this conversation with Erwin when he had once tried to sit Armin down and explain reproduction, as if Armin did not already know. Armin had quickly changed the subject from, "How are babies made?" to "How could anyone like me ever have children?"

The answer was very simple.

"I'll never be able to have sex," Armin informed Jean calmly. The boy looked taken aback, and suddenly remorseful, as though he'd treaded on Armin's toe. "Ever. Even if I'm miraculously stripped of my power to read thoughts and connect with people, I'll never be able to recover from what that power has physically done to me. I've accepted that, and I'm comfortable with it."

Jean sat for a moment, slack-jawed and alarmed, and Armin knew that he had not been expecting something so frank. Christa was sitting quietly beside Armin, her eyes on his face. They were not pitying, and they were not judging. They were simply watching, just watching, curious and absorbing all they could. Annie's eyes were colder, but she did not seem to pity him either. In fact, Armin could almost taste her sympathy as she settled in her chair, her shoulders slumping, and her icy blue eyes drooping as she gazed at Armin's face.

Marco seemed to be the only one to take it lightly.

"But you can touch certain people without feeling uncomfortable, can't you?" he asked eagerly. "Like Mikasa. You can hold her hand, or Eren's."

"Holding my best friends' hands is nothing like what I would go through if I had sex with someone," Armin said, closing his eyes. His head was pounding viciously. "To me, holding someone's hand flesh to flesh is the most intimate thing imaginable. And for some reason, with Mikasa and Eren it's completely painless. But just because they don't seem to clash with my ability, that doesn't mean I'd fuck either of them." Armin opened his eyes, and he tilted his head to the side, smiling wanly. "I mean, really?"

"Wait a minute," Jean said, holding his hands up. "Wait a fucking minute. When someone touches you, you're in pain? Like, that's a thing?"

"Yes," Armin said, nodding. "It's painful for me, and for the person touching me, usually. Annie can attest to it."

"Yep," Annie said dully. "It sucks."

"Except Ymir," Armin said distantly. "For some reason, whenever she touches me, I get really intense waves of pain, like I've been shoved into an oven and forced to bake and turn and bake some more until I've become so charred that all that's left of me is blackened bones, but she's never worse for wear. It's like she feels nothing."

"Well, Ymir's different than us," Christa said very quickly, her voice a squeak.

Armin glanced down at the tiny girl, and he turned to face her directly. "How so?" he asked.

Christa's eyes widened, and they darted fast as her arms waved hurriedly in the air, rapidly amending for her words. "O-oh," Christa gasped, "I just mean that… that Ymir wasn't given the power she's got, she was born with it. That's what I mean. She's different."

"Like Mikasa," Armin said, recalling his own theories about the powers and defects. "And Levi."

"Yes!" Christa nodded, her hood slipping over her vivid blue eyes. "Like them!"

"But I've made a connection with Levi before," Armin said, glancing up at the ceiling. "He still doesn't like being alone in the same room as me."

"Like you said," Marco offered weakly, "your power is different on different people."

Armin felt as though there was something he was missing. It was Ymir. There was something he was missing from Ymir, and that was the variable he needed to piece it all together. Whatever Ymir was hiding, it was crucial to solving Armin's confusion. Ymir, with her fire, and her drawl, and her possession, and her grandmother Ilse. Ymir and her tightlipped smiles, and her tired black eyes, and her heated touch, and her mind that held so much information that it could not be conveyed in a single touch, it was wrapped carefully in a protected field inside her mind, and Armin could not touch it. And Christa… Christa knew so much more than she let on, and Armin could tell, but he couldn't get anything from her. And Annie! Annie, with her wall of ice, and springtime taste, and sad eyes, and desperate thoughts that could not pass unto Armin fully. There was something wrong here.

"Your power sounds like it sucks," Jean said as they neared their destination. They'd gone quiet again, all of them, and Armin was still trying to puzzle out the enigmas around him.

"It's not nice, no," Armin said, pulling his knees to his chest. He embraced them tightly, and rested his chin against the top of his boots. "But it has its uses."

_Except when it doesn't,_ Armin thought miserably. _When there are a dozen gunmen, and not one of them have thoughts that I can reach. When there are three giant robots that seem human, seem real and alive, but what were they? And where did they come from? Why can't I know this? Why can't I have the power to understand these things?_

"Can you hear thoughts just… out of nowhere?" Jean looked a little uncomfortable. "Do you know what I'm thinking right now?"

"No," Armin said. "I can tune you out pretty easily. So don't worry, I can't hear you without focusing unless you're thinking really loud."

"How do you turn up the volume on your thoughts…?" Jean blinked at Marco. "Do you know?"

"Not a clue," Marco laughed.

"I mean," Armin said, glancing at Erwin as he announced their arrival over Philadelphia. Armin had kept the plane invisible, so he wasn't concerned about anything except where Erwin would land. "Well, I can hear little scraps of your thoughts, but nothing incredibly concrete. I don't want to read your minds right now, and I have a lot of other stuff in my head drowning you out."

"Oh?" Marco's warm eyes glittered with intense curiosity. "Like what?"

_Like Annie_. Armin bit his tongue. She glanced at him, as though she had heard the thought flutter through his head. And perhaps she had. Armin was still bitterly holding onto the icy, gleaming ribbon that connected his mind to hers. Armin sighed, and he looked down at his bare hands.

"Just… things that have been bothering me." Armin rubbed his wrist self-consciously. "Annie, can I have my gloves back?"

She tossed them at him, and he blinked as they hit his face, and crumpled into his lap, words of easy self-hatred and humorous disgust floating on the pale surface. Jean laughed, and Marco smiled, and Christa glanced up at Armin with her lips parted in concern. Armin was looking at the words floating against the white fabric, wondering why they were so hard to read.

"It's okay, Armin," Christa whispered, taking Armin's hand. He didn't look at her, but he knew she was worried because he probably had grown very pale.

"Yeah." Armin pulled his hand from hers, his flesh itching in discomfort. He pulled his gloves off, and took a deep breath. "It's fine. I just think too much."

Armin could tell that no one seemed to know how to react to this. No one was understanding, and Armin couldn't pin blame to them for this. Armin's power was all misfortune, and little benefit. He felt a little isolated from the world around him, and he recalled Marco had told him that maybe letting people in would make him feel better.

As Erwin landed the plane, Armin found himself wondering if maybe Marco was right. Maybe he really was psyching himself out with all his anxiety, and maybe if he just let people in every once and awhile the world wouldn't feel quite so overwhelming. Maybe Armin just needed to form stronger links with people, like he'd done with Eren and Mikasa. If he did that, then maybe it wouldn't hurt to touch that person. Maybe he just needed to give the links a chance.

"Now," Erwin said as they approached _The Brigade's_ headquarters. "Expect there to be people around. This is a news network, remember, and no matter how late it is, I'm positive we'll find workers straggling."

"Won't we be invisible, though?" Jean asked.

"We will," Erwin confirmed. "But that will mean nothing if someone realizes that we're there. Stay close. All we need is information. Telepathically inform Armin if you think you need to engage someone. But please, knock your opponent out as quickly as possible, if need be."

Armin hoped it didn't come to that. But contingency plans were their salvation, and there was no denying it. If they weren't prepared to fight, then they might as well quit while ahead. That was why Marco and Jean were there. So Armin took a deep breath, and asked everyone if they were ready, even though he didn't really care if they were or not. It didn't matter.

Invisibility to Armin was like a shield. No one could hurt him or anyone else if they were invisible. It was such a simple little trick. So simple, and so strange, and it suited Armin to be able to warp minds into false perception. And so, suddenly, they were all invisible, and entering an unfamiliar building, and Armin could feel the presence of them all around him.

They started through the building slowly. Armin passed by a woman working at a desk, and he pulled what he could of the building's layout from her mind. Then he distributed that information to the minds he could reach, and took Christa and Erwin by the hands because he could not mentally touch them. Their invisible fingers slipped into his as he led them into a darkened hall, doors running across the walls in a series of identical passages, choices that Armin could not make because he feared them. And he realized Erwin and Christa much trust him very much.

"This room," Armin said aloud, pulling his invisible guardian and his invisible friend before a door. He tested the handle, but it was locked. He jostled it for a moment, and looked around. The hallway was empty.

"Scoot a little," Jean said, his invisible body all but slamming into Armin's. Armin heard something jangling, and he could sense the lock picks in Jean's invisible hands, and Armin listened to the little mechanics inside the lock give way to Jean's expert jostling, listening as they clicked into the correct place just right, and the door swung open. "Heh. Piece of cake."

"Way to go, Ricochet," Marco said, his voice light and teasing. "Your delinquency has finally paid off."

"Shut up."

They were assigned to stay outside, Marco and Jean, and Armin entered the room with Christa and Erwin's presence following him. The room was full of computers, but Armin only needed access to one to get to what he needed. He wasn't going to be doing the hacking anyway. This was a job for Petra Ral, who was the core of their squad despite her absence. Armin was here to keep them all invisible and safe. Erwin was here to direct them, and to supervise them. Marco and Jean were here to guard them. Annie was here as part of one of Armin's contingency plans, but she also served as an inner guard. Christa was here in case something went terribly wrong.

"Wait."

Armin heard Annie's voice, and he was almost surprised. He turned around to face her, though he could not see her, and he sensed her concern as it bubbled from the hole he'd poked in her wall, sensed her fear and uncertainty. He wished there was something he could say to make her feel better, but he couldn't. He knew he couldn't. And she knew he knew.

"What is it?" Armin asked.

Annie's breath could be heard as she inhaled sharply. "I want to guard outside," she said. "It makes more sense. I have a power that'll eliminate an enemy quicker than mediocre hand-to-hand combat."

"Hey," Jean said sharply.

She rolled her eyes. Armin felt it. The way her eyes darted, and he felt her breath, and he felt her thoughts rolling inside a shuddering wall of ice, and he knew. It wouldn't last. It couldn't last. She was breaking inside of it, and it was cracking around her. She wanted freedom more than anyone could know. She gave him that, that glimpse of life, that glimmer of hope. She wanted to have control over herself, and the world around her, and her choices. She wanted it more than anything, and the wall was pressing up against her, hurting her just as much as it hurt Armin. And he understood. And he trusted her.

"Okay," Armin said. "I agree. It makes more sense for you to be on offensive. Erwin?"

"I see no fault in Lionheart's judgment," he said from beside Armin. "Though freezing someone in the middle of the hallway is a little conspicuous, don't you think?"

"I'm capable of defeating an opponent without my powers," Annie said firmly. "I won't hurt anyone, and I won't freeze anyone unless it's absolutely necessary. If there is no way around it, though, I'll have to use my ability."

"Understood," Erwin said. "San, you'll switch with—"

"If it's alright with you, sir," Marco said, "I'd like to keep my post in the hall. I'm better at hand-to-hand than Ricochet."

"No you're not," Jean said, sounding vaguely offended. "I'm way better."

"You're better at gymnastics," Marco sighed, "but I'm better at fighting. Remember the first night we ever went out crimefighting?"

Jean was very quiet. Armin tasted his resignation, bitter as it hit his tongue, and a wave of irritation sprung from Jean's invisible form. "Yeah," Jean said. "Yeah, okay."

So Jean followed Armin into the room, and Christa closed the door as they peered into the darkness. _Testing_, Armin thought gently, testing out his range with Annie and Marco. He threaded his mind to Marco's, tasting the cookie batter and blinking at the overwhelming sensation of sugar melting on his tongue. He tied that to the frozen wastes of Annie's mind. _Coming in clear?_

_Did you just connect our minds?_ Marco asked, sounding awed. _That's so cool!_

_No_, Annie thought to them bitterly. _It's really not._

_You two need to be connected to me in case someone comes_, Armin reminded. _Don't forget_.

_Oh, don't worry about us_, Marco said. _Nothing can get past Annie and I. I'm certain of it._

_I'm glad you're so assured._ Armin wandered over to a computer, and he wiggled the mouse. It was, of course, off, so he pressed the power button and waited as the room was filled with a blinding light. Armin waited patiently, and felt Jean settle into a chair while Erwin and Christa stood near the door. _Actually, while both of you are in my head. I think I should apologize_.

_Huh?_ Marco sounded taken aback, and Armin felt the word flutter inside his head, and then blow away like dust. _What for?_

_I acted pretty rude to both of you today_, Armin said. _Marco, all you were trying to do was help me, but I couldn't open my mind to the possibility of positive change. And Annie, I've invaded your privacy without even thinking. I'm not sure what's wrong with me today, but I'm so sorry for it_.

_Don't be sorry_, Marco said gently. _Don't worry at all. You didn't hurt our feelings. Right, Annie?_

_It was understandable_, Annie said. It was all she said. All she thought. She drifted back into the enclosed structure of her wall, her thoughts vague and distant.

Armin connected his phone to the computer so Petra would have access to it via her own phone. When Armin had asked if she could do this, she had jumped at the opportunity. She had wanted to come and do it in person, but Levi had found out and called her. Armin had not pried into what exactly the man had said, but it had changed Petra's mind. She complained, though, that it would be much easier if she could be there. Hacking from such a huge distance was a hassle.

"I wonder how the other squads are doing," Christa said, her voice breaking across the heavy silence. Armin watched the desktop grow dim as control transferred to Petra.

"By now they should both be nearly done, if they succeeded," Erwin said.

"And if not?" Armin asked, unable to bring himself to look away from the screen. The cursor was moving on its on accord, zipping across the screen and clicking on files and dragging them away.

"If not," Erwin said, "then we'll have to make up for their lack of results."

Armin sighed. He felt Erwin move closer, and he continued to stare at the computer screen as Erwin's hand landed on his shoulder. It was supposed to be a comfort, but Armin felt so sick, and so exhausted, and the brightness of the screen blaring through the dimness of the room was causing his eyes to water a little. His headache was worsening, and holding all of them invisible was straining for him. His shoulders were trembling.

"Are you cold, Armin?" Erwin asked softly.

Armin winced. "No names in the field," he reminded weakly.

"Are you cold?" Erwin repeated. He bent down before him, and took Armin by his chin. He stared into Erwin's face, shadowed black and white by the glare of the computer screen, his one visible blue eye alight with a strangely tranquil alarm. Armin could see that Erwin was concerned, and it surprised him.

Armin realized with a shudder that he was, indeed, very cold. He closed his eyes, and he felt Erwin's bare fingers slip beneath Armin's bangs and press against the raised imprints of Ymir's fingers that had been burned into his flesh.

"What is this?" Erwin asked, pushing his hair away from his forehead. "Your skin's blistered, Armin. And you have a fever."

Armin opened his eyes, and he pulled Erwin's hands from his face. He stared at the man's eyes, and he shook his head. "I got sick this morning," he admitted. "I had a fever then, too. Ymir checked, and she accidentally burned me. I don't even know if it went away."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Erwin asked, sounding suddenly furious. Armin nearly fell off his chair, he was so shocked and suddenly scared, because Erwin never used that tone with Armin, never ever, and it hurt.

"You would have made me stay home," Armin gasped, gripping his chair as he tried to steady himself. He felt Jean behind him, and his concern was growing. Armin tasted it in the honeyed flavor of Jean's lazy mind.

"Yes," Erwin said, his jaw tightening. "I would have. I would have told you that you'd be a fool to risk your wellbeing for a mission that can go on without you. You're no use to me if you're sick. You can't control your power, you can't focus— you've become more of a hindrance than a help, you must realize that." Erwin did not stand up, and he kept his eyes level with Armin's, and Armin's heart was beating suddenly very hard, because Erwin's words were hitting him like hammer strokes. Erwin's expression had become hard, and Armin couldn't tell what he was feeling, because he was so far away, so steady and calm and knowing, and Armin just couldn't take it. Erwin could be playing Armin like a fiddle for all he knew, because Erwin was charismatic and clever, and Erwin made Armin feel like all his problems could disappear, but then Erwin would do something like this, and Armin just didn't understand how the man felt, he didn't understand, he didn't know, and it was destroying him. "Do you think I don't know you? Do you think I didn't notice? Did you honestly think you could fool me, Armin?"

And Armin shook his head mutely, because something hard had lodged itself into his throat, and it hurt. He felt so ashamed of himself, and he stared at Erwin in terror, his entire body shaking out of fear and pain and confusion and a sickened exhaustion. Armin saw Christa coming closer, her brow furrowed, and her blue eyes glowing like beacons in the darkness.

"You need to understand," Erwin said, "that this is a very serious issue. That you can't just neglect your health for the sake of the mission. You've endangered not only yourself, but also everyone here. What on earth were you thinking? You're usually so much smarter than this— look at me when I'm talking to you. Look at me, Armin." Erwin's cold fingers caught Armin's chin again, and his teary eyes met the man's strikingly alert ones. His expression didn't soften, and Armin felt a sob bubbling in his chest. "You need to focus. We're all visible, and there are cameras here. We don't have much time. Look at my face, and focus on my face, and don't look away. I need you to focus. Make us invisible."

"I can't," Armin choked, his voice breaking across the heated air, and frost clung to his skin, goosebumps prickling his pores. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I— I can't, I feel like—"

"I know," Erwin said. "I know, but we don't have time to waste. You have to make us invisible again."

Armin looked away, and he listened to his breath as it became shallow, speeding up rapidly as he realized how immensely he'd fucked up. He rubbed his eyes, the heels of his palms digging into the hollows of his skull, and it hurt so much, and he didn't understand why. He took a deep breath, and tried to get a feel for the presence of Jean behind him, his hands hovering over Armin's shoulders worriedly, and Christa coming closer, and Erwin kneeling, watching, furious and cold, and Annie and Marco—

"Wait," Armin said, his panic heightening, and his confusion cloaking his senses. "There's someone outside."

"Yeah," Jean said cautiously. "Marco and Annie…"

"No," Armin gasped, pushing himself shakily to his feet. He was quaking, his knees buckling under his weight, and he lurched toward Christa. Erwin caught him around the waist before he could crumple to the floor. "Christ— Vitae, get away from the door."

Christa stared at him in shock, and she drifted closer as the door burst open, and Armin felt Erwin's body curl protectively over him as Jean leapt to his feet, both his guns appearing in hand. _Jean_, Armin thought to him sharply. _No. Don't shoot, oh god, don't_—

He squeaked as Erwin dragged him to the ground, knocking Christa off her feet and yanking her with them. She looked alarmed, but Armin could see her eyes, and he knew she was not afraid, because she stared at him with a tight jaw and flashing eyes. She didn't seem to like that Erwin had to shield her, but she lay on the ground anyway, leaning into Erwin's embrace, and throwing her purple cloak over Armin's head to protect him.

"Fuck," Jean swore as something cracked— a skull. Armin moaned, feeling the security guard's pain as Jean's gun cracked against the side of his head. Then he choked, because Jean had struck the man again in order to force him unconscious. He looked at Christa, whose bright blue eyes were flashing across his face, and she tore off her cloak as Erwin released them, wrapping him up in the deep purple velvet. Armin shuddered, but he was grateful, because the cloak was so warm, and his own cloak felt flimsy and ratty in comparison to Christa's almost regal cape.

"It's okay," Christa whispered, her fingers fumbling with the clasps of the cloak. She glanced back at the open doorway, and she exhaled sharply. "Damn it— oh, Armin, I'm sorry, I can't—"

"It's fine," he said, peeling the cloak off. She looked at him sharply, and she shook her head, objecting immediately. "Vitae, you have to call me Cicero now. And right now the last thing I need is a heavy cloak— I have a fever, remember. I feel cold, but I really shouldn't try to warm myself. In fact, I could use Annie right now." _Maybe she can just freeze me_, Armin thought miserably. _And then I won't have to deal with this awful headache_.

"Oh," she said, pushing her hair behind her ears. "Oh, gosh, right. Okay. But we need to get you out of here. Can you stand up?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "That's not important. Augur's right, I've become a huge hindrance—"

"No, you—!" she objected.

"Yes," Armin said firmly, "I have. I can barely make sense of anything right now. I'm useless, I can't even move…" He laughed bitterly, and Christa held him by the shoulders, and she shook him, telling him no, no, no, but he couldn't listen to her, let alone believe her. "There's someone… there's someone else coming… Augur…"

"They're in the hall," she whispered. "Do you know where Annie and Marco went?"

"Mm…" Armin shook his head. "They must have gotten spotted and ran off. That's not important right now. They're fine— I'd know if they weren't, I'd feel it. But there's… there's someone else, Vitae… Christa…" Armin slumped in her arms, staring at the floor and feeling the room spinning. He wondered if he'd puke again. Oh, this was getting out of hand. He was getting out of hand, and his powers were taking the front seat again, like they tended to when his mind and body could not contain them. "Erwin… tell Erwin…"

"Tell him what?" she asked, gently smoothing his hair back from his face. He stared at the body of the security guard near the doorway, and he saw one of Jean's guns lying beside the man. "Can you… can you tell me what hurts?"

"My head…" He sighed into her shoulder, and he was so grateful for her presence, because he needed to rest his head somewhere, just for a moment. "I can't… I can't make sense of anything, Vitae…" Armin's head was swimming, and there was ice clinging to his heart, and his head, and he sighed as she ran his fingers through his hair, rocking him like he was a child. "Christa…" He was shaking so badly, his teeth chattering and cracking and threatening to shatter against each other, that he thought he might bite his tongue off. He didn't know how he was still speaking. He thought that maybe if he kept talking, it'd stop, but it didn't, it made him feel worse, and Christa was holding him with her untouchable mind and her glassy blue eyes, and flaxen hair, and Armin thought that was sort of familiar, but he was blinded by his icy heart and frozen head. "Historia…"

She went rigid as she held him. Armin felt the presence of someone in the hall, and he realized with a start what that meant. He tasted the thoughts of a man who had pulled Jean's own gun on him. They were in the hall, and the man, Kitts Verman, was speaking. He was talking like a man who was scared. Who knew something. And Armin tuned into that, felt that fear, and he gained some semblance of strength from it.

He pushed off from Christa and lurched to his feet. "Armin," she said, her voice soft and shaky. "Armin, stop. You can't."

He scooped up the gun from the floor, ribbons shattering in his head, and they felt frozen and bloody, and he wanted to laugh at how good it was to be free of them, despite how crippling it was to feel the shards of a broken link imbed inside his fragile mind. His hands were shaking as he flicked the safety. His fever had broken, and now he felt very warm, sweat causing his hair to stick to his brow. Something in him had melted. Like ice on a wire, or chocolate chips in an oven.

"Stop," Christa repeated. "You're sick, Armin. You shouldn't be moving around, and you're in no shape to fight."

"I don't intend on fighting," Armin said.

"What do you mean?" she asked weakly. She pushed herself to her feet, dragging her heavy velvet cloak with her. "Armin?"

"It's Cicero," Armin corrected her as he entered the hall, his feet moving subconsciously, his knees and joints aching at the tough action of bending. He spotted Erwin and Jean at the end of the hall, on their knees with a man between them. Erwin was a pacifist, and Jean hadn't any power to speak of. And Kitts Verman had his gun. And Armin had the other.

"Okay," Christa said. "Cicero, then. What are you going to do?"

Kitts Verman didn't knew as much as Armin had hoped. He knew that there was something rotting in the underbelly of their little network. He knew that the responsibility fell on Reiss's shoulders, Reiss who had met the man once or twice or thrice, and there was a glimmer of recognition of a child peeking out through the door of a library, blond and blinking and blissfully curious. Armin saw this in the man's mind, and that seemed so strange, because he didn't know the extent of Reiss's misgivings. He didn't know that there had been experimentation, and he didn't know that there were now kids who had to live every single day with the result of some sick whim.

But he did know he had to protect the secrets that _The Brigade_ held at all costs.

That was it, then. Armin had no other choice.

_Verman_, Armin thought to the man, causing him to jump and whirl around. Armin raised the gun in his hands in response, and the man stared, his eyes growing wide in shock. "Drop the gun," Armin said. He saw Jean's face, and the boy looked absolutely incredulous. Erwin simply watched, his expression neutral.

"Where did you people come from?" the man asked, looking utterly terrified. Armin almost felt guilty, but he kept his fingers firmly on the trigger.

"I think the question should be," Armin said, "why are you so willing to kill us?"

"E-excuse me?" Verman asked, his voice growing weak at Armin's words. Yes, Armin could taste his fear, and it soured the air around him. His hands shook against the gun.

"You want us dead," Armin said calmly, his eyes flickering as he searched the man's face, searched the man's mind, and bled it dry of information. The man blanched, and Armin wondered if he felt it. The parasitic touch of Armin's mind leeching off his. "You don't even know us. You couldn't know us, we've never met, but still, you want us dead. Because someone warned you about us." His gloved fingers tightened around the gun. "Is it because we're dangerous? I won't lie, that's true enough. But do you know why, Verman? Don't you know the truth about who created _The Brigade_?"

"How do you…?" Verman's hands shook on his own gun, and he shook his head furiously. "Stop that! Stop… stop talking, or I swear…!"

"You'll shoot me?" Armin exhaled sharply. "Go ahead. Do it. Shoot me, and then see what happens." Verman stared at him. "Oh. But you can't shoot me. Why is that? Do you know me?" Verman's eyes flashed in terror. "You _do_!" That was strange. Armin had never met this man before, and yet he somehow knew him. "You can't kill me— you want to, but you can't. Why is that?"

He felt Christa at his back. Armin almost looked down at her. And recognition glowed inside Verman's eyes. _Historia_. Armin tasted the name on his tongue, and in Verman's head. It tasted familiar, like candy canes and antiseptic.

"Ah," Armin breathed. "Not me. Her. You're scared you'll hit her."

"I don't know him," Christa said.

"Neither do I," Armin said, staring blankly at Verman as sweat broke upon his brow. Yes, Armin had caught him. He was breaking apart before their eyes. "But he knows us."

"Both of us, though?" Christa whispered. "How is that possible?"

Armin couldn't answer that. Verman's thoughts had gotten too muddled in his panic, and now Armin could only catch little scraps. The name Historia blew around Armin like wind whistling through grass, and he felt the breeze tickle his skin, and it was so familiar to him, like an old memory surfacing from the depths of a lake after a long winter. Reiss was thought of, and there was some panic there, and that panic turned to terror. Verman turned the gun on Jean, who had inched ever so slightly closer with the intention of knocking the man out.

"Stop it," Verman choked. "Stop talking— both of you, stop, or I'll blow his brains out."

Armin pressed his lips together firmly. He recalled watching Eren get shot five times, and the taste of his blood in his mouth, and the overwhelming despair that had overtaken him. No, Armin couldn't go through that again. Not in the state he was in now.

"If you shoot," Armin said, "I shoot."

Verman's lips were trembling. Jean was staring at Armin with his eyes narrowed, alert and searching for the correct opening. Armin knew that Jean wasn't incompetent. He could take down Verman easily, so long as the gun was trained away from him. And Jean knew, of course, that it was all a bluff. That Armin would likely miss if he shot the gun in his hands. It was so cumbersome in his shaky hands, it was a wonder that he was still holding it.

_You said not to shoot_, Jean thought, his voice screaming in Armin's head. Because this was the first time Jean was truly calling out to Armin, and he winced in shock as honey spilt across his tongue and clung to his teeth, and sealed his lips shut.

_I told you not to shoot_, Armin said. _You've never killed anyone before_.

_Neither have you!_

Armin recalled Annie's question. Did he think she was a good person? How could he possibly judge her, when he could barely comprehend his own actions as good or evil? He was always praised for his judgment, for his mind, for his pragmatism. But now they were all in shambles. He was in shambles. He was deteriorating, and he felt his mind leaking through his ears.

_That's not true_, Armin said. _I killed a man using just my words once. And even if I can't kill Verman using a gun, I can almost certainly make him kill himself_.

Jean's face seemed to crumple at that, and he stared at Armin with a furrowed brow and slumped shoulders. _You don't have to_, Jean said.

_No,_ Armin said. _I don't_.

Eren was so sure that they were heroes. But Armin was standing here, his trembling fingers on the trigger of a gun, his skull threatening to cave in and shatter, leaving bits of bone to collide with his brain and turn it to a gooey, squishy mass of sticky, pulpy matter. And Armin knew that he could be the one responsible for taking a life, whether it be by his own shaky hand, or by the puppet strings dangling from his pulsing brain and connecting him to any unsuspecting mind that could be reached.

It was confusing, not knowing what to do next. Armin used to be so sure of his actions, but right now he felt like _any_ move he made would result in something cataclysmic. And the worst part was, he didn't care. He wanted it. Because at least there was closure in knowing something definitively. He knew that pulling the trigger, no matter what course the bullet took, would bring a great deal of pain to his already fragile heart. He knew that, but he didn't know what _not_ pulling the trigger would do. And perhaps that would hurt more, because there were lives on the line. Jean, a stranger, but a kind one, who tasted like honey and bemusement, and he wanted so bad to be a good person, and to find his place, but at the same time he was absolutely terrified of his choices. And Erwin. Erwin, Armin's guardian, Armin's savior, Armin's friend— if only Armin could believe in Erwin like everyone seemed to believe in him. If only he had that kind of faith in anything, or anyone. If only he had that kind of faith in himself.

Nobody seemed to be ready to stop him. Christa stood at his side, watching Verman with her clever blue eyes, and Armin knew that she wasn't who she was pretending to be. Oh, it was written all over her sweet, pretty face, and Armin recognized her gaze to be distrustful and wary. And she, the most innocent of them all, seemed almost willing to let Armin pull the trigger.

Jean wouldn't stop Armin. He couldn't. And Erwin was unreadable, like always, with a steady gaze, straight shoulders, and a hard expression. Erwin could weather anything. And Armin was so scared of himself in that moment, he thought he might begin to sob. He didn't _want_ to kill this man. But what was good and what was necessary… they weren't the same. And for the mission to succeed, Verman could not tell a soul about what he'd witnessed. It wasn't possible.

Armin knew a thing or two about superheroes. Killing was a big no, especially when there was a way around it. But Armin also knew that letting this man live was more trouble than it was worth. If the man knew Armin and Christa, then that was a problem. There was no way to keep him quiet, except to silence him. And here Kitts Verman was, pointing a gun at Jean's head. Was there really a way around this? Or was Armin just kidding himself?

He understood now why Erwin was so angry. Armin had made a mistake in not telling anyone about his fever. He had underestimated how truly overwhelming this kind of illness could affect him. He'd never felt like this before, so powerless, and yet too powerful even by his standards. And Armin, unstable and close to tears, was holding a gun.

"Do you really want to kill a teenager?" Armin whispered, his voice melting with his mind, and he shoved the words into Verman's head. Armin watched his heads shake against the handgun. "You'll be charged. You can't get away with it, and you know it. His fingerprints won't be on that gun, but yours will. You'll have taken away a child's promising future, Mr. Verman. Can you live with that?"

Verman's sweaty face grew even paler in the dim light of the hallway. Armin felt his own words imbed themselves deeply into the man's subconscious, and they dragged fissures across his skin, breaking his expression in half, and tears leaked from the exposed brain.

"I told you to stop talking," Verman breathed. "I told you. I told you…"

"And I told you," Armin said steadily, "to drop the gun."

"You're a monster," choked the man, his eyes darting between Armin and Christa. "Both of you! He warned me, he said you'd become rotten, he said it, but I couldn't believe it— but now I see what he meant. I know you, I know you now, you're that— vigilante! A menace to society! You talk and talk, and force people to do your bidding!" Verman's hands were shaking even worse than Armin's. "And you!" His eyes were stuck on Christa's face. "Father told me you were dangerous, but I couldn't believe it. Not you, how could you be? You were such a sweet little girl, but you've gone bad. You've both been tainted. You're _evil_!"

"Evil," Armin repeated. "Evil, Mr. Verman, is not simply holding a gun to a man, and saying a few words. Evil is corruption. If I'm evil, then it cannot be by my own accord. If I am evil, sir, it is because someone made me this way. If I am evil, then it is like you said— I've been tainted, and by someone far above you, and above me, and above this entire network of lies you feed the public, because you can't have them knowing that their leader orchestrated human experimentation. If I'm evil, then so is this entire organization, and everyone in it. If I'm evil, Mr. Verman, then so are you. Because you've forced my hand." Armin steadied his grip, and he felt his mind clear a little. He could not kill Verman. There was clarity in the man's accusation. Because Armin was certain he wasn't good nor evil. He was just a person. He was just a person who wanted closure. He wasn't a hero, and he wasn't a villain. He wasn't even Cicero. He was just Armin, a boy who was beginning to regain a sense of himself, one little bit at a time.

"So," he said in an even tone. He felt almost serene as he spoke, and he saw Erwin's face. There was approval in his eyes, and Armin's heart swelled with warmth, melting the ice that had clung to it. His fever had broken, and his mind had reassembled. Armin was going to be okay. "I'll tell you once more. Drop the gun. There's no need for either of us to be the evil one. We can end this by dropping our weapons, and talking like civilized human beings. I'll gladly tell you all about the corruption in your company if you can tell me who is responsible for it." Armin's gloves were going wild with the swirling, jittery script of Armin's own hand. He could read it now. _Qua re secedant improbi, secernant se a bonis, unum in locum congregentur, muro denique, quid saepe iam dixi, secernantur a nobis_. Armin saw the words glistening, and he was relieved to see them. Nothing made him feel more like himself than when he read Cicero. _Wherefore, let the wicked depart, let them separate themselves from decent men, let them finally be separated from us by a wall as I have often said_. "Drop the gun, Mr. Verman."

Verman stared. His face was shadowed, and his fear was palpable. Armin could hear his thoughts, but they were all strangled. He was not in his right mind. And Armin realized what Verman was about to do, because he tasted it. That fear consuming him. There was no reason left inside his skull, only terror.

"Don't you dare," Armin breathed. Verman's lower lip trembled. And his arm shot out, twisting away from Jean. Two shots rang through the air, and Armin was surprised, because his gun had recoiled and kicked his chin, leaving a sharp, stinging sensation as Armin dropped it. It clattered to the floor as Christa went flying, her cloak torn from her shoulders and left to flutter away in a heap of purple velvet as she caught Erwin's crumpled body. Armin's mouth had dropped open. No. No, this wasn't right. No.

Armin had never met anyone so blinded from sense. He could not believe that this had happened, that he had let it happen. And the man hadn't even been hit by Armin's bullet. There was a chunk torn out of the ceiling where Armin had shot a hole through the panel. It was unsurprising. Armin had never shot a gun before. Of course he wasn't a good shot. And of course he'd held it wrong, and now he was pretty positive he was bleeding from the chin, or bruised at the very _least_. And oh yeah, Erwin had been shot.

Erwin had been shot.

And Verman was turning the gun back to Jean. But this time, Jean was ready. He jumped to his feet, and twisted out of the man's way, grabbing his arm and forcing it back to the point where Armin was certain he'd heard something pop, and Verman screamed, but Jean had already wrenched the gun from his fingers and forced him to his knees. Armin exhaled sharply. His head was aching terribly, and Erwin was bleeding out, and Jean was safe and furious, and Armin was not in any mood to bargain again. This man had missed his chance. And though Armin wasn't evil, he knew that he was not good by any means.

Armin kicked the gun he had dropped out of Verman's reach, and he dropped to his knees before him. His heart was pounding very hard. _Where was Erwin shot_, he wondered, _why isn't he making any noise, shouldn't people make noise when they're shot?_ _Even Eren made noise, like someone drowning. In blood. That would make sense. But there's nothing from Erwin, nothing at all_.

Armin stared into Verman's terrified eyes. And he raised his right hand to his lips, tugging his glove off with his teeth. "Ricochet," Armin said softly, clutching Cicero's dramatic conclusion to his oration against Catiline in one hand. "Hold him steady for me."

Jean looked at him. And he did just that.

"W-what are you doing?" Verman gasped, twitching away from Armin's bare hand. He paused. He was angry. Oh, he was so angry… and so exhausted… and he wondered what this would do to Verman. What it would do to Armin himself. Would it be worth the pain to torture this man with invading his mind? And it didn't solve the problem they were facing, that this cowardly man knew far too much.

Armin tore his other glove off, and grabbed Kitts Verman's face with both hands. The sensation caused fire to bloom across Armin's mind, raging ferociously, and he saw a little boy standing in a library, smiling wanly. He saw a little girl with a gap-toothed smile peeking through an open door, and retreating shyly. He saw the president shake hands with him, nodding gratefully. "Yes," Reiss said. "That was my daughter. Isn't she charming? I wouldn't trade her for the world." And Armin just nodded, nodded, though he was confused, because wasn't that girl adopted? It didn't look it. And what of that boy in the library? "Oh, don't mind him," Reiss said. "He's such a quiet boy, you won't even know he's here."

His fingernails, a little too long and unkempt, dug into the wrinkled flesh of Verman's cheeks. A shockwave of terror filled Armin. He relished in it.

"Forget," Armin told the man, absorbing all his fear and disgust, and letting that shake his unstable mind inside his fragmented skull. His headache was a thing of the past, a silly pain in comparison to this fire-forged agony. Verman was a thousand thorns from a thousand roses pressing into Armin's brain. _Roses_, Armin thought. Verman moaned.

"Stop," said Verman. "I'm sorry… I'm sorry…"

"_Forget_." Armin tasted crushed roses in his mouth. This was not a memory of Verman's. This was his own memory. He was looking at Verman, and smiling wanly. He'd been playing with the dead roses in the vase by the library window. He remembered, the brown petals had crumbled in his chubby fingers. "Historia?" the man had asked, surprised. And Armin's smile had fallen. Because no one talked about Historia anymore. "No, sir," Armin had said. "She went away."

Armin could feel Verman's memories as they slipped between his fingers. And he tore them to ribbons, tore them to bits, using nothing but his nails and his teeth and his cruel, vicious mind. Kitts Verman had no time to scream, but he did convulse beneath Armin's fingers, and Armin's lungs were expanding, pressing up onto his ribs, and they would explode and force everyone around him to eat the shrapnel of his shattered bones. He breathed in fear and exhaled rage. Roses burnt his tongue.

Any semblance of tranquility that Armin had retained in these minutes of terror and fury, it melted away as Armin's fingers drew a bead of blood out of Verman's sunken cheeks. His eyes had rolled upward, and the ribbons of his mind were snapping one by one.

"_**Forget**_!" Armin snarled, tears spilling onto his cheeks.

And all the ribbons were cut in one swipe, and they fell around him sadly, drifting like crinkled rose petals. Kitts Verman crumpled as Armin released him, his body a useless, empty shell. Armin felt empty too. His breathing was heavy. His head was splitting apart.

He swayed a little, tears running freely against his warm cheeks, and they were a welcome chill. He was so sick on fear, he couldn't even feel his grief. Or his guilt. He didn't even care that he had just done something morally despicable. He didn't care at all. He was heaving, his entire body shaking, and he glanced up at Jean as he bent down beside him.

He offered out an inhaler, and Armin snatched it, taking three puffs and relishing in his ability to gasp. His entire body felt ready to give way, as if his tendons would snap, and his limbs would all crash into one awkward pile. He was on the brink of collapsing.

"What did you do?" Jean asked, nudging Verman with his toe. No one else was on this floor now. Armin would be able to feel anyone else's presence, even in the shape he was in.

Armin inhaled deeply, and exhaled. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the mouth, and out through the nose. In through the nose, and out through the nose. In through the mouth, and out through the mouth. He pushed his hair from his sweaty forehead, but it just curled right back into place.

"I made him forget…" Armin sighed, fumbling with his gloves. He still tasted roses. Why the fuck did he taste _roses_? Kitts Verman didn't taste like roses. He tasted like fear and vodka. Not roses.

"What did you make him forget?"

Armin looked at Erwin sharply. The man was sitting upright, Christa supporting his back, and there was a large, damp black stain in the side of his uniform. Armin looked to Christa, and she smiled gently. She held up a bullet between two fingers, and he nearly laughed. Because he'd forgotten. She was a healer.

He nearly tripped over himself trying to get to Erwin. He flung his arms around the man's shoulders, and he buried his face in his chest. And Armin felt his entire resolve break, and he was sobbing, his fingers catching on Erwin's cloak, and he tasted the blood that had seeped through the wound Verman had dealt, but it didn't even matter. None of it mattered. Why had Armin let something so silly get to him? He was sick all the time, this was nothing new. Armin was sickly, he'd accepted that. He couldn't let something so foolish blind him again.

Erwin seemed surprised. "There, there," he murmured, smoothing Armin's hair back, just as Christa had done. He pulled Armin's face gently from his chest, and he felt so like a child that it hurt to even look Erwin in the face. He hiccupped as the man wiped at his tears with his black cloak, his gloved fingers grasping his chin. "I hope you're not wasting your tears on me."

Armin wanted to laugh, but it came out like a garbled, pained sob, and he shook his head furiously. "I m-m-m-messed up…" Armin choked, squeezing his eyes shut. "I messed up s-so ba-ad…"

"I disagree," Erwin said. "I think you made the most of a very tough situation."

"But you could've died," Armin gasped, his eyes squeezing shut. "Because of m-my mistake, because I didn't tell you I was sick— if I had known, if I had even thought for just a _second_—"

"It might have made a difference," Erwin whispered. "But for now, tell me. Are you alright?"

Armin groaned. He groaned, and he chuckled, and he buried his face in Erwin's chest again. "Define alright," he mumbled into the bloody fabric. When he pulled his face away, he was certain it'd be bright red and wet with tears and blood, but he didn't care.

"Is this guy gonna be okay?" Jean asked. Armin sniffled, and he pulled back from Erwin. He hiccupped again, and Erwin rubbed his back slowly.

"What did you make him forget?" Erwin repeated softly.

Armin smiled tremulously. His heart was still beating very hard, and his head was pounding viciously, but he felt a lot better than he had before. He was glad for Erwin's presence. His untouchable presence that was such an immense comfort. Armin couldn't imagine life without it, and it made him realize how truly dependent he was on Erwin as a person. Because no matter what Erwin thought of him, Armin was stuck in utter adoration of this man who had taken him in, fed him and clothed him and given him a home, and he wondered if Erwin knew, or if he just pretended he didn't.

"Oh," Armin said weakly. He glanced at the vacant, drooling face of Kitts Verman, and he sighed. "Everything."

Erwin glanced at him. "Ah," he said. "How unfortunate for him."

"Wait," Jean said. "What?"

"How awful," Christa murmured.

"A necessary sacrifice," Erwin told them. "Can you stand, Armin?"

"Yes," Armin said. He struggled to his feet shakily. "Can you?"

Erwin smiled tightly, and he pushed himself very slowly up. He towered over them all, and he raised his head high. "I believe we're missing two of our members. Ricochet, will you go fetch the phone? Petra should be done hacking by now. And ask her to erase what security footage she can from this building in the last, say thirty minutes."

"Okay," Jean said. He eyed Verman's body as he scooped up his guns and holstered them, walking away toward the room with the computers.

Armin began to sway on his feet, and Erwin grasped his shoulders. "I can carry you," Erwin said. "What you did… it couldn't have been good for you."

"I'm feeling a lot better than I did before, actually," Armin admitted. "I think I might even be able to make us all invisible now."

"I really wouldn't recommend—" Christa started, biting her lip.

"I can do it," Armin said firmly. She looked at him, and he thought she might yell at him. But Christa was too reserved for something like that. So instead she watched him with her narrowing eyes and tight lips, and Armin recalled something. "Who's Historia?"

"Huh?" Christa looked taken aback.

"Historia," Armin repeated, leaning against Erwin for support. He was relieved when his guardian wrapped his arm around Armin's shoulders and pulled him closer. "I don't know. Verman just kept thinking about that name. His mind was so… so messed up, I couldn't even tell what was happening in it. But he knew Reiss, and he knew us. Somehow. But he knew more or less nothing about the institute."

"I don't know…" Christa looked uncomfortable, and she turned away from them. She plucked her cloak from off the floor. "You made his aura all funny, you know…"

"If he ever recovers," Armin said, "I'll apologize."

"Yo," Jean whistled, jogging up to them and waving Armin's phone. "Got it. Let's go find those two assholes. They're so gonna regret ditching."

"Yes," Armin agreed dryly, "because that was so fun."

"Well," Jean said with a frown, "no, but it was definitely a sight. By the way, Vitae, your power is _the shit._"

Christa flushed bright red, her pale cheeks growing rosy and splotchy, and she shook her head. "O-oh," she mumbled, "no, not really…"

"Augur was glowing," Jean said. "Like, I saw it. There was a gold ring all around him, and you just fuckin' pulled at it, and it got so bright— like, I didn't really get what you were telling me before, that your power wasn't just healing, but I see now. You really do see auras and stuff."

Her eyes were wide, and her mouth was parted, and she was nodding in awe. "Yes," she said. "Yes, that's right."

"Well, it's really cool," Jean told her. And Christa smiled. Armin watched her, the way her lips quirked, and her eyes crinkled, and she looked a little stunned, but pleased. He'd never realized it before, but Christa rarely smiled. Or, at least, she rarely smiled genuinely. And it was jarring to see, because it made him wonder what on earth she could be hiding.

"Thanks…" Christa said. She looked at Armin, and he kept staring at her, undeterred by the attention he'd drawn.

"Let's go," he said, clutching Erwin's arm. His skin prickled as he dragged their presence, and made them all disappear with a pull and a flick of his focus. His joints ached, but he figured he'd be okay, so he dealt with it, and focused harder as he led them out of the hall. He was thinking about Kitts Verman. And Reiss. He knew he should feel guiltier about what had happened. He'd erased a man's mind. He'd done that, and Armin felt very little remorse. Perhaps he'd wake up tomorrow with a crippling sense of regret, but for now, Armin just couldn't care. That man had set Armin off the edge, which wasn't remotely surprising. He'd already been tipping, and his mind was far from stable at that point. Armin hadn't done it to be cruel— if he'd meant to be cruel, he would have left the man with Armin's touch to haunt him for the rest of his miserable life. Yes, that would have been cruel. Instead, Armin had stripped him of his memories and his senses. It was almost a kindness. He couldn't feel pain anymore, or sadness, or fear.

If Armin kept telling himself it was a kindness to destroy that man's mind, perhaps he would convince himself, and perhaps he really would become that evil person he'd assured himself he was not.

Armin followed Annie's taste. She was too familiar, and Marco was barely a blip in Armin's radar. Between the two of them, Armin could easily track Annie if she was within a mile of him. Her taste was like a jolt of pressure in his head, and it hurt, but it was a familiar ache, and it was almost welcome now. He remembered that she had promised to tell him something important, and he almost called out to her mentally, he was so eager to hear it. Her springtime taste, the dandelions and frosted grass, it tickled his nostrils and his taste buds, and it turned sour as they made it outside.

He became worried at that. Annie's presence was getting closer, and her taste was growing… icier. Armin thought that was a silly thing to think, that a girl with ice powers had thoughts that were slightly icier than usual, but yes, that was right, her thoughts were cold and growing colder by the second. As if she'd frozen herself in shock.

Armin had to push himself forward, because he was growing fearful for her. She was hiding inside her mind, behind that stupid wall, and he couldn't reach her. He couldn't call out to her. He was stuck knowing she was scared, and shocked, and stumbling, and he didn't know why. His focus shifted, and they all flickered back into visibility.

"Cicero?" Erwin sounded very distant. Armin could not listen to him. He was gaining speed, not thinking of his aching head or aching joints or the crushed roses scratching his tongue. No, he was thinking of Annie. Because Annie was terrified.

And that was strange, wasn't it? That Armin could feel her terror, despite not knowing what she was thinking. It was empathy, not telepathy. _Empathy_, Armin realized with a sinking realization. _Oh god, I'm an empath_.

He sped past an alleyway, and he inhaled sharply. Annie was very close. She was shaking, watching him, and he could tell why she didn't just come out and face him. But then a shout from behind him caused him to turn. Christa was standing outside the alley he'd passed. She was staring into it, her lips parted, and her brow furrowed, and Armin forgot all about Annie for a second as he returned to the girl's side.

"Vitae?" he whispered. The nipping October air grazed his ears, and licked at his exposed cheeks, and he pulled up his hood to make it stop. Christa's eyes flickered up to his face. She looked horrified, and confused, and she looked back into the alley. Armin could hear someone's strangled shouts— and that voice was familiar. "What's wrong?"

Christa swallowed very hard, and she pointed into the alley. "I can't…" she whispered. "I can't… do anything, I can't… there's nothing there, Armin, if there was…"

Armin looked into the alley, which was darkened by the gray October night, and it stunk like piss and beer and something rotting. Philadelphia screamed around them, never quite asleep, and cars sped past, and there was somebody speaking, saying something shakily, and Armin realized with a wave of panic that was not his own, that it was Jean. So he moved closer. And the panic grew into a crippling despair.

"What happened…?" Jean was gasping— not sobbing, not yet, oh no, because he was still in shock. That shock was frozen over their connection, and Armin shuddered. He felt Annie close by. "What the hell…? How could this…? Why…? Did anyone see…?"

_Marco_, Jean was thinking. _Marco… oh, God, Marco, what…?_

Armin stood beside Erwin, and stared at the corpse slumped against the wall.

Half of Marco's face was gone. Shattered. Ice was crawling across the bridge of his nose, and criss-crossing through the dark, freckled skin of his forehead, and his lips were frosted, and his single eye was glassy and crystallized. His face was almost serene, his icy lips upturned ever so slightly in half an unsuspecting smile. His corpse was so fresh that there was still color in his face, warmth in his frosted cheek, and it was a strange and sickening sight. His blood and brain and bones were all frozen solid. His arms were folded across his chest. A chunk of his shoulder was gone, and black crystals of blood and bone and petrified flesh littered the damp alley floor.

Armin turned away, and walked back to the entrance of the alley. He took a deep breath of the stale autumn air, but it smelled like frosted grass and frosted blood, and he leaned against the wall of a building, and inhaled through his mouth and exhaled through his nose, and inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, and inhaled through his nose and exhaled through his nose, and inhaled through his mouth and exhaled through his mouth, and he felt a little better after that, though his stomach was still churning, and he felt a frozen thread being struck within his poor, beaten mind.

Across the street, a girl with blonde hair and gleaming eyes watched him. She was retreating into the darkness of another alley, but he knew he'd caught her, and she knew he knew.

He didn't call out. He didn't tell them that he'd found Marco's killer. He just watched her tiredly, and she watched him with the same weary expression.

_Do you regret trusting me now?_ said the little murderess.

Armin was in a strange place of pained serenity. His apathy was melting into his empathy, and he was struck by the overwhelming emotions of everyone around him. Of Jean's grief and shock, and Annie's shock and terror.

In this state of mind, there was very, very little that Armin regretted. He was drunk on someone else's fear.

_No_.

* * *

_Congratulations. You made it to the end of the monster chapter. It gave me so much grief, I cried._

_Not because I killed Marco, though. That was actually a huge relief. When I told her about this chapter, Angie was like, "Yeah, I'm surprised you've kept him alive this long." Granted, she knew this was coming. And I'm sure lots of people saw it coming. _

_A lot of things happen in this chapter. Armin figures out some things. Armin goes a little crazy. Armin bonds with a lot of people. By all means, this should be my favorite chapter of the entire story, it's got everything I love, right down to asexual Armin! I do like this chapter a lot, but considering how much of a pain it was to write, I have a bit of a negative outlook on it._

_ok i'm out tho, i hope you enjoyed it, and maybe you felt sad, idk, i don't know how emotions are to an outsider_


	15. the wax melted

_**tabuerant cerae**_

**Rome, Italy **

_a.d. pr. Idus Octobres, 2677 A.U.C_

A cool breeze shivered through gaps of the twisted iron balcony, and caught on the ribbons of smoke drifting from the lit cigarette resting between Levi's fingers. It was a mild afternoon, though Levi couldn't really be sure what was mild by Roman standards. This was more luxurious than a gutter rat like him could possibly conceive. He took a drag from his cigarette, and smoke filled his beaten lungs. Fuck this mission.

He exhaled smoke through his nostrils as he stared at cell phone. The breeze was tickling his pale cheeks, and running through his hair and dispersing the smoke he was blowing out into the vacuous space. Rome was a pretty place, some cobbled streets and colorful villas and stores stretching across corners. He didn't have a great view of it from his hotel balcony, but he'd seen what little his could, and it was an incredible sight for a man who spent his childhood stumbling from New York alley to New York alley.

Levi answered the skype call grudgingly. He considered hurling his phone across the great expanse of air that drifted beneath the balcony, but he couldn't.

Mikasa's long, solemn face appeared on the tiny screen. Her black eyes were narrowed, and there were dark circles under them, rings of exhausted bruises. She was grumpy, and half asleep. Great.

And to think he missed this little bitch.

"You look happy," Levi remarked.

"_You said call_," Mikasa said, her voice dead and scratchy as it left her chapped pink lips, and her image became granulated as she shifted her position. Levi saw, amused, that she was sitting on some foreign bathroom floor, her back pressed up against a colorful wall between a toilet and a sink. "_So I called_."

"I didn't mean wake yourself up at the asscrack of dawn to skype me, you dumb shit," Levi sighed. He could say whatever he wanted about Mikasa— but he could not deny her loyalty.

"_Is Eren there_?" she asked, ignoring his statement. She was in her pajamas, of course— which consisted of a black sports bra and baggy gray sweatpants. This was nothing new to Levi, who had been the one to buy the clothing for her, as he tended to. Mikasa was not reliable when it came to purchasing her own clothes, simply because she did not care enough to check to make sure something was her size. Levi had spent many days dragging the girl through Walmart after Walmart, forcing her to try on clothing instead of simply grabbing and going. He wondered if she was still bitter about that.

"He's showering," Levi said, taking another drag. As he spoke, smoke spilt from his lips. "Or eating. Or taking his meds. Or something."

"_You're such a shitty chaperone_," she hissed, her eyes sliding disdainfully into slits. "_Eren could be dying, for all you care_."

"Doubt it," he said, watching the end of his cigarette wither and wilt, blackened embers catching on wind. "And until Eren does die, I'm fuckin' positive I'm a better chaperone than Erwin."

"_You're the worst_," Mikasa spat. "_The absolute worst_."

Levi felt a little guilty as he glanced over the girl's grainy face. She looked disgusted with him. And rightfully so. Levi had forgotten that Mikasa had been close to Marco Bodt. It had just slipped his mind, because Levi was still so involved in his own mission. Once they had left London they'd made it to Paris before being informed of Marco's death. That had been awkward. Levi and Eren had sat across from each other at a little outdoor café, and the boy didn't touch his food, nor did he look Levi in the eye, and Levi had to try and figure out what the fuck was wrong with him, because he'd never pegged Eren as the type to grieve silently.

Levi had realized after some contemplation that Eren was not grieving Marco. He was grieving Annie. He was grieving that friendship that he had clung so desperately to.

"How is it there?" Levi asked, his cigarette smoldering between two fingers.

She shrugged. "_We're not really talking_," she said. "_Jean won't even look at me. We just don't talk. At all_."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," he said. His voice sounded dull and bored, but he knew she caught his teasing tone. He knew, because she exhaled so sharply her nostrils flared.

"_Armin's having nightmares_," she said, raising her chin in defiance of him. "_We're sharing a room here, and I keep waking up to him staring at me_."

"Maybe he has a crush on you," Levi offered, though he wasn't serious by any means. He was certain Mikasa's only potential suitor was that fucking horse of a kid, Jean Kirschstein, and by all accounts, it was unrequited.

"_You think I'm joking_," Mikasa said briskly, "_but I'm serious, Levi. He doesn't stare at me like he's lucid. I wake up because it's a reflex when I know I'm being watched, and he's just laying there staring at me, looking like he's about to cry, and I don't know what to do. He doesn't move, either. I'll say his name half a dozen times before he finally wakes up, and he has no idea what's going on. He thinks I'm the one having nightmares_."

"That kid is creepy," Levi told her. _Stay away from him_, he almost said. But he knew Mikasa would sooner abandon him than Armin Arlelt. So there was no point in starting an argument that Levi would lose.

"_No, Levi_," Mikasa said. He heard her grit her teeth in frustration. "_There's something wrong. It takes him hours to fall asleep, and once he does… he whispers things in Latin. He's scared, and I know it, but I can't help him_."

He realized how useless she must feel. Because she had a power that allowed her to be the protector, but here she was facing a problem her fists could not cure. She couldn't battle Armin's internal demons with her brute strength. She'd need to be able to comfort him. And Levi knew that it would be a challenge for her. Because it was a challenge he himself could barely manage.

"Well," he said, "what do you expect me to do about it?"

Mikasa scowled. And she looked away. She must have realized what she was doing, coming to Levi for advice on how to comfort the boy who had ripped through his mind so carelessly that it had left a scar upon Levi's already callused heart. Levi didn't know how to make Armin feel better. He didn't know what Mikasa should do. He took another drag on his cigarette, and he wished he could be of use to this stupid girl and her stupid friends, but all he could do was cart them around to the places they needed to go, and maybe provide some shitty protection.

"_I have to go get ready for this funeral_," Mikasa said, her eyes flashing back to Levi's face. Her glare was furious, but her lips were pressed together in a thin, worried line. "_Tell Eren to text me_."

"Fine." The word was a cloud of smoke fluttering into the breezy Roman air. "I'll be home before you, you know. So don't you dare fucking ignore your homework."

"_My friend just died_," Mikasa said flatly.

"I wonder how many more you'll lose," Levi said, "if you're benched because your grades are low."

Mikasa let out a short, enraged breath of alarm. It was shaky and uncertain, and her eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly. She was afraid.

"_Fuck you_," she sneered. The call ended there, and Levi sighed. Being a parent was hard. Mikasa had been trying to have a real, genuine heart-to-heart with him, and he'd just pushed her away, because it was the easy thing to do. Why should Levi care about Armin's fucking nightmares?

Levi recalled a little too late what Erwin had told him when they had last talked. That after Erwin had been shot, Armin had wiped the mind of the man who had done it. That Armin's power required physical contact, and often resulted in physical illness. Armin did not have it easy, and Levi couldn't blame him for having nightmares. His own dreams were either void or terror. And all Mikasa wanted was to help, and all Levi could do was push her away, like usual, because he couldn't do what she tried to. He couldn't deal with the pesky emotions of others. It was too much to handle.

"What are you _doing_?" Eren's voice was piercing, and it sort of made Levi wanna whack him so hard he fell over the side of the rail. The door to the balcony slid open, and Eren appeared beside Levi with a scowl prominent on his dark face.

"Regretting every decision I've made in the past thirty years." Levi was pinching the smoldering cigarette now, but he still got a good drag out of it. He blew smoke carefully away from Eren's face. When Levi looked back, the boy looked surprised. "Sorry, was that too candid for you? Would you rather I go back to pretending like you don't know the shit show that's my past?"

Levi had told Eren bits and pieces in their past few days of travelling together. He answered questions when Pixis and Rico weren't around, and he let Eren be his naïve, curious self. It had struck him how strangely innocent Eren was, because Eren didn't seem to grasp half of the things Levi insinuated. Or perhaps he just hadn't implied them well enough.

"Okay," Eren said, holding up his hands in surrender. "I meant what are you doing _smoking_?"

"Old habits," Levi said dully. He flicked the cigarette over the side of the balcony, and watched it gutter out in midair as it sailed downward into the tight cobbled alley below. A string of swirling smoke was left in its wake.

"Liar," Eren said softly. Levi gave him a sharp look, and Eren quickly averted his gaze, resting his elbows against the balcony and staring out into the slanting red roof across the street. "I just mean, you clearly are capable of kicking old habits. If you weren't, I doubt you'd be here now."

Levi turned his eyes away from the boy. There was something ridiculously sincere about his demeanor. He was an angry kid, callous and a little unusual, but he meant well. That was the difference between them, Levi realized. Levi was callous and angry and righteous, but he was not amiable. Eren was a generally likable person, and Levi was almost jealous, and almost furious, because this boy had made him feel guilty.

"Why do you hate smoking so much, kid?" Levi asked. "I won't do it around you anymore, but I don't get it. It's none of your business how I throw away my life."

"I don't care," Eren said firmly. "It's because you're throwin' away your life that bothers me. You just willingly drain yourself of a future, and that's such a waste of potential. Like, there are people dyin', y'know? And you— people like you an' Hange, you've got healthy bodies, and you just put 'em to waste when there are people less fortunate than you wastin' away." Eren met Levi's eye bravely, his bold green eyes glittering with his resolve. "It's selfish of you."

"Selfish," Levi repeated. _Am I selfish?_ he thought, bewildered. He couldn't deny it, of course, because as a former addict he was very aware of the truth in the accusation. Levi could spend years trying to hide the memories under a thousand good deeds, but they'd be under false pretense. He'd be doing them not to do good, but to balance his evildoings. It was in Levi's nature to be selfish, he realized.

"Yeah…" Eren shrugged. "I mean, everyone's selfish sometimes, but like, you got a miracle, Levi." Levi's body went rigid, and he regretted telling the boy about his past affliction. "Why would you come out of something like that and go, hey, why don't I put some deadly carcinogens in the body that just got cured of an incurable disease?" Eren snorted, and he pushed off the balcony and whirled around. "'Cause _that's_ smart."

"I'm going to die some day," Levi said. "And I'd rather it be a death of my own choosing. If I live long enough to get lung cancer, I can accept that, because I'm in a right state of mind to choose what hurts me and what doesn't." Levi didn't need a loudmouthed little shit lecturing him. He had enough of it from Mikasa. "Go get your shit together. We've got an apartment to check out."

In Paris, Levi and Eren had split from Pixis and Rico. They had flown to Rome while Pixis and Rico had taken a train to Berlin. They'd agreed to work together and split the locations in order to save time. The first team to find Grisha Jaeger got to punch him out. But once they did that, they had to phone the other team so they could all interrogate him. Levi wasn't worried about Pixis and Rico betraying them. Pixis wasn't the type to turn away an ally like Levi.

They'd gotten to Rome pretty late the previous night, so they'd checked into a hotel and went over their plan. The Paris apartment had not been used in years, so they were ready for disappointment in Rome. And if Dr. Jaeger was not in Rome, then they were heading back to Manhattan. Eren had an excuse to miss school because Hange had kicked up the entire household and dragged them to Oregon, so his absence wouldn't be seen as unusual. But still, they'd been gone for a little too long.

As they made their way through the warm hued city, Levi found himself picking out little landmarks he'd always wanted to see. When they passed by the Roman Forum, Levi almost stopped to get a closer look at the ruins, but he didn't. He kept trekking forward, watching Eren as the boy eagerly pointed out the Coliseum, which was rather hard to miss, and they passed by it as they walked.

"See," Eren said brightly, "I know history! That's where all the gladiator stuff happened."

"Yep," Levi said. "Good job, Eren. You know what basically everyone on earth knows about the Coliseum." Levi refrained from clapping slowly to prove his point, because his teasing had not yet dampened Eren's mood. He was still looking around with a sense of wonder that had not been there in London or Paris. Eren was bouncing on the balls of his feet and eagerly stretching to look across streets and into alleyways and through shop windows.

"We need to take Armin here," Eren said. "We just have to. He'd love it so much, he'd want to move here."

"Is it really all that great?" Levi asked. He couldn't help but be confused by Eren's excitement. Rome was certainly more foreign than London, but not even Paris had lifted the boy's spirits so thoroughly. Perhaps Eren had forgotten that a member of his team had just died because of the culture shock.

"You don't get it," Eren said loftily, his chin raised high. "You don't get Armin like I do. You ain't in his head all the time like me. This place would make him so happy he'd cry. 'Cause of all the history behind it."

"If I had to be in Armin's head all the time," Levi said darkly, "I'd shoot myself. Gladly. In the fucking face."

Eren shot him a look, and Levi noted that it was a warning. Levi liked Eren fine, he was a good kid, and so was Armin, but the boy was too creepy to bear. Levi was still bitter that he'd gotten a hold of his thoughts and memories and dredged them all up for Levi to experience all over again. Like he wanted the taste of vomit and the familiar prick of a needle in his arm, yes. Yes, remind him of the thrill of it. And the disgust.

"Personally," Eren declared, "I like it. It's so easy for us to communicate when we know what we're feeling. And we ain't got any secrets from each other. Like, I know Mikasa hates Annie." Eren bounced excited as they trekked uphill. He didn't seem to run out of steam. "I know that Armin likes her. I know that Armin's really scared all the time that his powers will get out of control. I know that Mikasa doesn't like leaving us alone, because she gets scared that she'll lose us again." Eren tugged at the drawstrings of his sweatshirt. "And I'm sure they know everythin' about me, too, all the stuff I'm scared of. Stuff I don't even know for sure myself. It's just the kind of connection we have— and it's nice to have people constantly around to know exactly how to react to you. You don't get friends like that just anywhere, y'know?"

"Gosh," Levi said bitterly, "that really makes me want a fifteen year old brat poking around inside my brain. Thanks for that, Eren. Truly inspiring."

"What is with you and Armin?" Eren snapped. He had yet to loose his cheery demeanor, but oh, was he getting there. Levi could sense that he'd treaded on Eren's good mood. He'd pissed in the poor kid's orange juice.

"I don't expect you to understand," Levi said coolly. "Armin's powers don't affect you the way they affect other people. But what he did was not only invasive, but also triggering. I can't help being bitter."

"Um…" Eren looked suddenly, desperately bemused. "Triggering? Like, what, flashbacks?"

"I relived a lot of bad things," Levi said. "Just because that little blond shitface touched me. Imagine being forced to go through your procedure again."

"Well…" Eren shuffled his feet awkwardly against the cobbled sidewalk. "It'd suck, yeah? But Armin didn't mean nothin' by it."

"Did he mean nothing by erasing the mind of that _Brigade_ worker?" Levi asked.

"What's that gotta do with this?"

_He's either very stupid or very naïve_, Levi thought, taking his time in not answering. So much time had passed that he couldn't even bother himself with it. _Or maybe he's perfectly aware of everything, and he's just too fucking stubborn to turn to sense_.

"If you had the chance," Levi said suddenly, "would you give up your power?"

Eren paused, his beaten green converse scuffing against the sun-bleached cobblestones. He glanced at Levi, and he seemed utterly confused at first. "No way," Eren said firmly. "I can help people the way I am now. Without Rogue, I'd just be any other kid with like, anger issues and diabetes." Eren scoffed. "No thanks."

Levi didn't know if this logic was admirable or stupid. Perhaps it was both. Because Eren genuinely cared about people, and wanted to help them, but he didn't seem to care what it cost him. His life, for one. Levi was certain that Eren would be his own undoing, and that was fine— Levi knew that the same thing applied to his own fate. But at least Levi knew that if it came down to it, he'd gladly give up his powers. They weren't a burden of any sort, like Armin's or even Eren's, but he could live without them. He could settle for being stripped of his title as Humanity's Strongest. He might be happier, being normal.

"What if it was better for the world?" Levi asked, rounding a corner and searching the numbers on the tightly packed buildings. The alley was so narrow that there was no sidewalk, and no cars on the stained brick road. A little boy was kicking a soccer ball against the wall of the building opposite him, and it bounced back at him with great ease. He dribbled it from shin to shin, his dark eyes watching Levi and Eren curiously as they passed.

"How could anything like that be _better _for the world?" Eren asked incredulously. "We're helping, aren't we? That's what heroes do."

Levi came to the conclusion that Eren was an idealist. There was nothing wrong with that, but he really did not want to be around when that mentality came crashing down on him. It'd be a bad day, that was certain. Levi was very certain that he was not a hero. No matter what anyone else said, or how they perceived him, it was a truth that he could not deny. He did things with good intentions, but he was selfish and cruel, and he knew it well. He wasn't incredibly deep in his self-loathing, like he used to be, but Levi still struggled with accepting the person he was now. He probably should thank Mikasa every once and awhile, because if he was to be honest, she was the reason he was three years clean, and she was the reason he kept up this hero charade, and she was the reason he pursued answers about the facility.

Was Mikasa a hero, then? Was Eren and Armin? What made a hero, if not good intentions?

Erwin Smith was not a hero. Levi was not a hero. Hange might be, but only because they had more qualities alike with the children than with the adults.

_Oh_, Levi thought, stunned for a moment as he glanced at Eren's back. _Oh. Shit. That's it._

The kids were the heroes. That was the dumb fucking secret to it. It was the _kids_. The facility had _never_ been about Levi and Erwin and Rico and Rose, it'd been about those fucking kids, and Levi saw it now with clarity. There were more children there than there had been adults. The kids had been treated with a fair amount of kindness, while the adults had been scrambling to remember why they'd sold their bodies to science in the first place.

And the kids had left that place stronger. Levi had simply relapsed over and over again, until a _child_ had rescued him from his own heap of fuck ups.

Levi thought about Annie, then, and wondered what had gone wrong there. All the kids had left the facility. All of them had gotten stronger. Found themselves some resolve.

_Unless_, he found himself thinking, _she never left at all_.

He found himself angry, because that could mean a thousand things. But, for one, it meant that Annie couldn't be held responsible.

"The apartment is there," Levi said, pointing to the orange hued building that stood apart from the others squished around it, if only for the bold teal door. Like Paris and London before it, this apartment was marked by that very color. And Levi had a pretty good feeling he knew why.

"That's surprising," Eren remarked. He sighed, and he jumped up onto the great crooked concrete stoop, and he pounded his fist on the heavy oaken door. Flakes of teal paint fluttered off in response to the rattling of wooden grains, and it fluttered in the cool autumn breeze, coughing through the alleyway. Eren was already inspecting the window beside the door in order to test how easy it'd be to break in.

"_Egli __è__ andato_!"

Levi exhaled sharply through his nose. "Shit," he breathed, whirled around to face the little boy. His soccer ball was resting in the crook of his arm, pressed up against his side as he wandered closer to the crooked stoop and teal door of Grisha Jaeger's apartment. He was dark and skinny, black eyes and sun-kissed skin, and muddy brown hair with slivers of gold strands from merely soaking in the sun. He was wearing a baggy blue jersey, and one of his scabby knees was skinned and bleeding.

"Huh?" asked Eren blankly.

The boy glanced at Eren with a frown. His eyebrows furrowed, and then he rolled his eyes. Levi noticed his warm skin was freckled, likely from the sun. "_Egli __è__ andato. Il medico_." The boy blew his hair out of his eyes, and jerked his little chin at the teal door. "Em… bye bye…?" The boy waved his dirt-smeared fingers through the air. "Gone."

"The man who lives here?" Eren asked eagerly. The boy nodded furiously.

"_Si_," the boy said. "_Si, il medico_. He gone now." He lifted his black eyes to Eren's face, and he smiled brightly. He pointed to him, and exclaimed, "_Tu sei suo figlio_!"

Eren smiled dully, and glanced at Levi. "What the fuck did he just call me?" he whispered, still smiling vacantly at the child.

The boy rolled his eyes, and snorted. "I say," said the boy haughtily, "you son, _si_?"

Eren blinked rapidly. "Oh," he said sheepishly. "Oh, yeah. Yeah, I'm his son. The… uh, medic…o?" He grimaced.

"_Si_…" The boy was grinning. He jerked his hand forth, still clutching his ball beneath one arm, and he raised his chin high. "_Si, medico_. He talk. You. Of you." The boy's black eyes softened. "All time. All the time. He say…" The boy swallowed thickly as he gesticulated with one hand. "Em, he say, you look. _Si_? You look for _medico_?"

"Yes," Eren said, jumping off the stoop and reaching out as though to grab the boy. He didn't, though, and he looked at the child desperately. "Oh my god, yes. You know where he is?"

The boy was still grinning, and Levi thought the boy was a little too smart for his own good. "_Si_," he said. "_Si… ma_…" The boy rubbed his thumb and forefinger together suggestively, and Levi nearly laughed. Oh, yeah, this kid was too fucking smart by far.

"We're broke, kid," Levi said. "_Comprende_?"

"That's Spanish, Levi," Eren whispered.

"I know it's fucking Spanish."

Eren winced in response, and the little boy merely laughed heartily. He had an innocent little laugh to make up how truly clever and underhanded he was. "No money," the boy said. The more he spoke, the easier the English words came to him. "Mm… words." He snapped his fingers, and squeezed his eyes shut. "Eh… ah, ah! Info! _Si_, info!"

"You want what, now?" Eren met Levi's eye. This wasn't all that weird, really— Levi had done similar things when he'd been a child on the streets. If a person couldn't pay with money, information was just as valuable. But the thing was, they didn't exactly have a lot of information to give away.

"Info!" the boy cried, tossing his hand into the air. "Just say… em…" He cocked his head from side to side idly, and his smile caused dimples to press into his round, freckled face. "Ah!" He jerked his arm out suddenly, and held out his forefinger with great enthusiasm. "_Un segreto_."

_This is a waste of time_, Levi thought. "Seg…greto…?" Eren asked slowly. He glanced at Levi nervously. "Is that, like, a cigarette?"

"A secret," Levi sighed. "He wants us to tell him a secret."

This kid really was more trouble than he was worth. And Levi couldn't even blame him, because he'd been there, and he'd done that, and it was almost funny to be on the other side of a child's deceit.

"Dude," Eren whispered. "I don't know any secrets to tell."

"You know plenty," Levi said. "I'm sure. But we don't have the time for you to dig through your thick skull, so I'll do it." He glanced at the kid, and he frowned. "What kind of secret do you want?"

"Mmm…" The boy dropped his soccer ball, and he began to dribble it from foot to shin to knee. And he shrugged. "You pick, _nonnino_."

Levi's eyes narrowed. What the fuck was he supposed to say to the kid? _I'll freak him out_, Levi decided. He knelt down on one knee before the boy, and looked him straight in his clever black eyes. The kid continued dribbling his soccer ball, unperturbed by Levi's expression and proximity. That would be the difference between the boy and Levi, when he'd been that age. Levi would have run for the hills if a strange man had gotten this close to him.

"I've killed fifty six people," Levi told the boy. And the child's eyebrows merely rose. His smile grew wider, and his dimples caved into his warm, freckled face, and he laughed.

"_Che figo_!" he cried. He caught his ball in midair, and continued to laugh as Levi stared at him. Perhaps he didn't understand him. Yes, that was probably it. The child probably had no idea what Levi had said. "Ahh… oh." The boy twisted his body, and pointed to the end of the alley. "_Via Veneto, nonnino_. He gone to _Santa Maria_. Eh, _Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini_." The boy winked, and turned away, kicking his ball into the wall opposite him. "Cannot miss. Bones."

"Via Veneto…" Levi murmured to himself, turning away from the boy. He didn't really care if they were going in the right direction. He sincerely doubted the boy was going to do anything with the information Levi had given him.

"Bones?" Eren asked the boy. "What's that gotta do with anythin'?"

The boy glanced at Eren, and he threw his head back and cackled. "You see!" he laughed. "Go see! Go see bones!"

Levi decided the best way to get Eren to hurry up was to leave him. But Eren stayed behind, and Levi was forced to stop at the end of the alley. He heard Eren speak very slowly.

"One more thing," he said to the little boy. "What's your name, kid?"

"Ahh," the boy giggled. He sounded absolutely ecstatic for some reason. "Marco. You?"

Levi glanced back at the tiny child, with his dimples and his freckles. And he decided that life was very cruel. He saw Eren's face, and knew the name had startled him. In fact, he now looked almost uncomfortable as he glanced away. It was stupid how easily death snuck up on people. Infiltrated their lives and reminded them of their humanity just when they think they're invincible. Perhaps Marco Bodt's death was a needed wake up call for Eren.

But the brief moment of grief passed quickly. Eren clapped his hand against the boy's and smiled. "Eren," he said. "Uh… _grazie_, little dude."

Marco smiled, and it was neither sly nor knowing. It was a simple, innocent smile of a child who looked genuinely surprised at Eren's compassion. "No problem," he said softly, his accent lilting as Eren turned away. He had his head bowed, and his hands were stuck in the pockets of his sweatshirt, and Levi couldn't help but feel sorry for the kid.

"Via Veneto is this way," Levi said, going left as they retreated from the alleyway. Eren followed quietly, which was strange and a little unwelcomed. Levi didn't mind Eren being a loudmouth. In fact, it had become a bit of a comfort and a familiarity in their few days together.

"Was that true, Levi?" Eren asked.

He probably should have expected it, but somehow the question had startled him. "What?" Levi glanced up at the bright-eyed teenager, and he knew immediately from the wary look on his face what he was asking. "Oh. Yeah. It's true."

"How come you killed so many people?" he asked confusedly. "That's a lot, y'know. That's like serial killer-y."

"I kinda was a serial killer," Levi admitted.

Eren paused for a moment. And then he jumped back in time with Levi's steps, and laughed. _What the fuck,_ Levi thought irritably, _is with all these dumb kids laughing at the fact that I have killed dozens of people?_

"Holy fuck!" Eren cried. "What was your MO?"

"I'd track down serial rapists or molesters," Levi said dully, "and I'd beat them, or torture them, and when they would beg for mercy, I'd put them down like the dogs they were."

Speaking candidly with Eren was something Levi couldn't help. He was curious, and Levi was bored, and for some reason the boy didn't judge him like Levi feared Mikasa would.

"Good," Eren said.

Levi glanced at him. "Good?" He turned his eyes to a building that had the words _Via Veneto_ carved into its corner. "Not the words I'd use."

"Well, I'd be a little worried if it was like, just random people," Eren said. "But honestly, if a dog's gone rabid, put it down."

"I try not to kill people anymore, though," Levi continued, albeit awkwardly. It was fine that Eren agreed with Levi— it was almost a comfort, really— but at the same time, Levi didn't think his philosophy should be something widespread. It could easily get out of hand, and he'd prefer it if it began and ended with him. "I wasn't in a good place when I started doing it."

"That's good," Eren said. "Good for you. Um… has Mikasa… ever…?"

"No," Levi said sharply. "Never. And hopefully she'll never have to." They paused in front of a faded brown building, the washed out brick resembling orange water color paint bleeding into red and causing the hues to muddle together. "That's it."

"How do you…?" Eren trailed off as Levi pointed to the sign. "Oh."

They rounded the left stairwell, and Levi paused. What were they supposed to do to Grisha Jaeger in a church? This was a church, wasn't it? Levi read the sign again to make sure. _Santa Maria della Concezione dei Cappuccini_. What did that mean, anyway? As they came to the landing and pushed through the doors, Levi came to realize that the building was not just a church. In English, a sign beside the door read the name of the church. Church of Our Lady of the Conception of the Capuchins.

"Capuchin crypt museum," Levi uttered aloud. He looked around vacantly. "_Museum_?"

"_Crypt_?" Eren took an eager step toward the sign, and he scanned it. "It's only six dollars, Levi."

"Six euros," Levi corrected. "Each. Which is a lot more than you think it is."

"You have the money with you," Eren said. "I know you lied to that kid. C'mon, it ain't gonna take us long. I just wanna see this crypt thing."

"Are you forgetting," Levi said, glancing at a priest who appeared from down a hall, "that we're looking for your father?"

"Are you forgetting," Eren replied softly, "that he's my _father_? He's not religious, Levi. If he's here, he's in the museum, or the crypt, or whatever. I'm positive he is."

The door opened behind them, and Levi chewed on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from telling Eren that he was a fucking little shit. The priest smiled at them genially, but Levi had no patience for piety, so he pulled out twenty euros from his wallet and tossed it onto the desk.

"What's this museum thing?" Levi asked. There was a woman standing behind him, waiting for him to move. Eren was back to the sign, looking entirely too enthusiastic about going into a crypt museum. He had to remind himself that Eren had been raised by Hange, so it wasn't exactly strange behavior.

"Ah," said the priest in a thickly accented voice. "American, hmm? Well, the museum is dedicated to the Capuchin friars whose bones lie in the crypts beneath the church."

"Okay," Levi said. That was all he needed to know, really. A museum for dead monks. How fucking exciting. He could die of it, really, and then they'd probably have to bury him in those crypts too, or something. The priest directed them to a door just behind them, to the left of the entrance, and Eren was gone before Levi could blink. He followed at a slower pace, because he was a little wary of this situation. Why would Grisha Jaeger come here of all places? If he wasn't religious, why would he drag himself out to a church, or a museum of a church, or whatever? What was going on here?

Upon entering the museum, they were informed that they were allowed to see the crypts. That got Eren so excited that Levi realized this detour wasn't such a waste, even if they didn't find Dr. Jaeger. And there was some really incredible historical value to the museum, which held artifacts that had once belonged to the Capuchin friars who were now buried under this church.

They went through the rooms, and while Eren wandered around and peered through glass at the baubles and books and belongings of the dead monks, Levi looked for a sign of Grisha Jaeger. The woman who had been behind Levi at the entrance was wandering around as well, her short, dark her obscuring her face every time she passed Levi. That made him pay more attention to her, but every time he did, she'd just stop and bend over a glass case.

"I think we get to see their actual bones," Eren said as they entered the final room of the museum. He was smiling happily, his phone in hand, and he took a picture of a glass case that held the old garb of some monk or another, and a pair of worn leather sandals. A large footprint was pressed firmly into the flesh of the leather, suggesting the shoes were worn for a very, very long time. "Oh man, Hange'll love this."

_He misses Hange_, Levi realized. Not that he could blame him, of course. Levi wasn't the warmest company, or the most exciting. But he was all Eren had at the moment. "He's not in here," he told Eren, glancing at the guard who stood by the door that led into the crypt. "Do you want to—?"

Eren was already walking down the steps, while the guard reminded him not to take any photographs of the bones. Levi wondered why that was so important. And then the stairs opened up upon a gated area. And there were bones everywhere. Beyond the short gates was a crypt unlike anything in Levi's wildest imaginations. The walls were piled with bones, of… of femurs and ribs and bits of spines, expertly designed and compiled and structured in order to create shapes, in order to create architecture, and there was a robed body stuck inside one aloft bone coffin, and another to the right, and all across the walls there were bones swirling and spattering and forming the most beautiful and macabre designs.

As Levi pushed off the steps, he realized what the little boy, Marco, had meant. Bones. Everywhere. Everything in this crypt was done by some artistic hand, purposefully creating the most wonderful and despicable sight. Levi looked up, and he saw a chandelier made purely of bones hanging right over his head. And then there was a painting. Christ resurrecting Lazarus was framed by bits and pieces of human skeletal remains.

To say Levi was awed would be an understatement.

To say Levi was uncomfortable was a _huge_ understatement.

He thought there would have been something separating him from the centuries old bones, but there wasn't. He was inhaling the musty scent of dead monks, dead skeleton monks. Full bodied monks, monks dismembered into thousands of tiny pieces. And Eren had already pushed on with the excitement of a small child, not realizing how asphyxiating this was. How terrible, how sickening.

"Are you alright, sir?" asked the woman behind him. He realized he was gripping the metal gate very tightly, his knuckles white and his muscles clenched, and he wanted to get out of this place very badly.

"Fine," Levi said thickly, pushing off the gate. "Just fuckin' peachy."

She laughed. He glanced at her, and then whirled around, startled. _Ymir? _he thought immediately, his eyes darting across the girl's face. But no. No, this was not Ymir, it couldn't be. She was a little older, for one thing, and her skin was lighter— more sun-kissed than naturally very dark— and her nose was like a button, with freckles sprinkling across it with a symmetrical type of precision, while Ymir's freckles spilt over her skin haphazardly. Her hair was about the same length and the same color, though, and though this woman had a round, comely face, it wasn't nearly as striking as Ymir's.

"What's wrong, sir?" the woman asked softly. She leaned forward, and Levi noticed a ring around her neck. A thick, angry red ring. Like a burn. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

And perhaps he had. Because everything in him was telling him to run. And everything in him was telling him that this woman— this very young woman, with warm, kind eyes, and Ymir's face— was Ilse Langner.

And that opened a whole new fucking can of worms.

Levi whirled away from her and strode through an archway and into the next vault. There were no bones in this one, and he was so thankful for it, but Eren was already moving to the next. This one was made entirely of skulls. Levi didn't spare it more than a passing glance to confirm that the vault was made entirely of skulls, intricate designs created using solely the severed heads of old, dead monks. He moved to the next vault. Pelvises. Next vault.

"Eren." Levi grabbed the boy by the arm. Beyond the tiny gate was a crypt full of femurs. And designs were created with such brilliance and enthusiasm, that Levi felt sick to his stomach. What was he breathing right now? Bone dust?

"This is so cool," Eren whispered. "I was gonna take a picture, but the guy yelled at me. No photo, no photo." He snorted. "We've gotta come back here. Like, with Hange and everyone else. It'd be fun."

"I'll opt out," Levi said quietly. Eren glanced at him curiously. "Not important. We need to get out of here."

"What?" Eren tore his arm from Levi, and blinked furiously. "What? No way. No. We have to find my dad, remember?"

"Your dad isn't here," Levi hissed, not even daring to look behind him. "It's a trap, Eren."

"A…?"

"A trap implies that I intend to fight you here," Ilse Langner, or some woman who looked a hell of a lot like her, said gently. Levi whirled around, hovering protectively in front of Eren. "I really don't. Outside, maybe, but I wouldn't want to disturb the poor monks."

"_Ymir_?" Eren choked, peaking over Levi's shoulder. "What the fuck are you—?"

"That isn't Ymir," Levi said sharply. "Look at her, Eren."

"Ymir," Ilse said in her strange, distant voice. She tilted her head almost curiously, and she smiled tightly. "How is she? Still hiding all her secrets behind her jokes and her rudeness?"

Levi pushed Eren back, and the boy slowly began to retreat, Levi following apprehensively. Ilse was wearing a pretty white dress that was high collared, and high-waisted, and the skirt reached to her skinny knees. She wore a red cardigan, and folded her crimson arms across her chest as she smiled.

"Ah, you're rude too," Ilse sighed. "I mean, I don't really care. I'm not here to lecture you, or anything."

"Then why the fuck are you here?" Levi hissed. They were getting closer to the entrance of the next vault, the next crypt. And Ilse kept smiling, dimples caving into her cheeks, and freckles dancing on her sun-kissed skin.

"I just want to kindly ask you," Ilse said very softly, "to stop pursuing Grisha Jaeger."

_Like hell_, Levi thought furiously. They were now in the next vault. When he glanced at the skeletons, there were children among the men. And it was actually horrifying. "Oh," Levi stated flatly. "Is that all?"

"Do you want my _condolences_?" Ilse blinked at him, her smile falling. "I'm sorry your little game got a boy killed, Levi. I'm sorry you all failed what you thought you were so good at."

"Who the fuck are you?" Eren gasped, sounding simultaneously horrified and enraged. "What gives you the _right_ to—?"

"Oh," Ilse said, "well, that'd be in the document your father signed stating that you belong to me. And all the other scientists in Maria and Rose, of course."

"What…?"

"Don't feel too bad," Ilse said with a shrug. She glanced at Levi's face, her strangely angelic one glowing with amusement. "We own Levi too. And he signed _himself _over."

"You act like you know me," Levi said, pushing Eren back again. "But I know we've never met. I know Ymir. She said you're her grandmother."

"That's a lie," Ilse said. "If you were wondering. Actually, most of what Ymir says is a lie. She's always had trouble telling the truth, that little girl…" Ilse sighed, and looked up at the ceiling. "Oh, look, they're on the ceiling too. How queer."

"Are you Ilse Langner?" Levi asked sharply. He didn't want to beat around the bush, and he didn't want to be wrong. There was something eerie about this woman. Her face wasn't as striking as Ymir's, but even so she looked strangely surreal, with eyes that glowed like beacons in the hollows of her pretty face.

She laughed, and she glanced at the crypt as she tucked her hair behind her ear carefully. "I'm whoever you want me to be," she said softly. Her eyes flickered over the skeletons, the bones that were stacked and connected with artistry and care, and there were three skeletons staring back at her fully intact. One was on the ceiling. A child again, but this one clutched a scythe of bones. The child grim reaper. "Do you like it in here, Levi?" Her eyes never left the skeletons. "Eren?"

Eren was backing up slowly, and Levi saw him throw a glance at the guard that had yelled at him not to take pictures.

"It's disgusting," Levi snapped. "What kind of church puts corpses on display?"

"You clearly weren't paying attention when you came in," Ilse said, resting her hands on the short gate that separated her from the vault of the dead monks. "It's not meant to be amusing, or macabre. It's meant to be reverent. Those who are buried here were aware that this was their fate. This crypt is to appreciate the service of the friars who dedicated their lives to their faith, and remind us that we are no different then them." She looked down at Levi with sad eyes, and she smiled wanly. "'What you are now, we once were; what we are now, you shall be.'"

Levi inhaled sharply, and instantly regretted it. The air was stale, and every breath he took was a struggle, because he didn't know how to react to this. He had no wish to be around these bones any longer, but he couldn't deny that it was poetic. In the most disturbing way possible. He was itching under his sweatshirt, his skin prickling with disgust. It wasn't the crypt's fault, because he was certain it was a wonderful experience for anyone who could deal with it. But Levi couldn't. He felt like he was suffocating, and breathing in decay, and he was so anxious to leave this place that he had to wipe the sweat from his hands onto his jeans.

"Why do you look so much like Ymir?" Eren blurted. Ilse blinked at him curiously, her smile faltering.

"That," Ilse sighed, "is a long story. I'd tell it to you, if you decided to come with me. But I know that's asking too much of you, so I don't expect it."

"Come with you _where_?" Eren's eyes flashed with terror. "To… to the institute?" His jaw set in rage, and he shook his head furiously. "Of course that's asking too much! What the fuck is wrong with you? Who _are_ you?"

"I didn't come here to hurt you," Ilse said. "I don't know why you're so angry. I've done nothing to warrant it."

"Because you're from the institute!" Eren cried. "You did this to us! You… you tortured us!"

Ilse looked absolutely taken aback, stunned and hurt. She took a step back in alarm. "We never did anything to intentionally hurt any of you," Ilse said gently. "I know it's difficult for you to comprehend, but trust me. It's better if you just leave the skeletons where they lie, and stop trying to unearth them."

"You made a woman insane," Levi said sharply. "You picked on people less fortunate than you to do your experiments."

"And are you not better off?" Ilse asked sharply, her eyes narrowing at Levi's face. _She knows all about me_, Levi thought, suppressing a shudder. _She knows about the HIV, and probably that I was a prostitute, and definitely about my addiction. She knows everything_. Levi was reminded of Erwin, and it made him furious.

"I'm not talking about myself!" Levi's fists clenched at his sides. "You tortured a woman, made her insane, and then left her to rot. You took little kids and turned them into weapons!"

"Weapons?" Ilse scoffed. "Is that what they are to you? Did you hear that Eren, you're a _weapon_."

"Well, why else would you experiment on us?" Eren snapped, stepping up to Levi's side. He was about Ilse's height, and he was far more intimidating than she was. "God, was there even a reason?"

"I wish you'd leave this alone," Ilse whispered, her eyes closing. "You'd be so much better off…"

"Why all the secrecy, huh?" Eren took a step toward Ilse, and Levi grabbed him by his hood.

"Not here, Eren," Levi hissed.

Ilse laughed a little, and Levi resisted the urge to punch her into the piles of bones, and watch the dust kick up around her and devour her. "All I'm asking," Ilse said, throwing her hands up defensively, "is that you forget about your father, Eren. Just let him go. He doesn't want you involved in any of this."

"What _is_ it?" Eren gasped, exasperated and furious. "What could possibly be that bad?"

Ilse said nothing. And Levi was sick of her. "Let's take this outside," Levi said sharply, whirling away from Ilse, and tugging Eren by the hood. The boy didn't need prompting to follow, and Levi didn't care if Ilse did or not. He just wanted to get out of the fucking crypt. He took the stairs upward, and as he did, Eren looked behind him at Ilse.

"Levi," Eren whispered. "She looks really familiar."

"She looks like Ymir," Levi stated. "Of course she looks fucking familiar."

"No, no." Eren shook his head, his eyebrows furrowing. "Her _eyes_. Okay, my memory's not great, but… I've definitely seen them before. And her voice. That's familiar too."

Ilse had begun to follow them, and Levi paused to look back. She didn't look familiar beyond the fact that she looked like Ymir, and the picture of Ilse Langner from 1923. "Maybe you knew her from the facility," Levi offered.

"No." They reached the landing, and Eren looked steadily into Levi's eyes. His expression was a little too serious for Levi's comfort. "I think she was leading the gunmen at the mall the day I was shot."

"And she's standing right behind you," Ilse called from the steps. Levi glanced at her, and he frowned as she smiled and waved. "Hello, yes. I can hear everything you're saying."

Eren whirled around to face her, and he scowled. "Well," he snapped, folding his arms across his chest. "_Did_ you?"

She made her way up the stairwell slowly. "Did I what?"

"Did you fucking shoot me?" Eren snarled, his body jerking forward. Once again Levi held him back, though it was a little difficult. The next time Eren snapped, Levi wasn't sure he'd be able to stop him without hurting him.

"Why should it matter if _anyone_ shoots you?" she asked, looking honestly alarmed. "You have an advanced regenerative ability. Our most successful result in that field, might I add."

"You didn't answer my question," he said, his shoulders shaking. He was trying very hard not to lunge at her. Levi could tell.

"It's not important," she said softly. "I'm not important, Eren. What's important right now is your answer." She made it to the landing, and they slowly backed up toward the door that would lead them outside. Levi's back hit the door, and he pushed it open, dragging Eren with him. And Ilse followed, her hair whirling around her head as a sharp breeze struck up around them.

"An answer?" Eren's face twisted in confusion and fury. He sneered at her. "An answer to _what_?"

Ilse sighed. She pressed her lips together, and looked up at the sky. She was strange, this woman who looked like Ymir, this woman who was clearly connected to the facility, this woman who had power over them. She was a snake with the face and demeanor of a butterfly. She appeared utterly harmless, and her face glowed with some fay-like quality, some attractive force that made her look utterly innocent and incorruptible. Or perhaps she just was naturally that type of person. Levi didn't know. He didn't know what was happening, and it was kinda scaring the fuck out of him.

"Will you stop pursuing your father?"

"No." Eren met her gaze, and he stood on the sidewalk with his shoulders squaring and his chin rising high. "I ain't gonna stop, not till I find him. And if you think you can stop me, take your best shot, lady!" Eren threw up his arms, daring the woman with the sharp, furious glower of his eyes, and the green of them seemed alight in his rage, burning in his head and threatening to send the air aflame.

She glanced at him, and she sighed again. She looked rather unimpressed. "I thought you'd say something like that," she murmured. "Why can't you just see sense?"

"Because," Eren snapped, "you're not _making_ sense, you crazy bit—!"

"I already told you," she said firmly, cutting Eren off. The boy bristled in frustration. "You're better off not knowing. None of this was supposed to happen. We don't care that you're all running off, getting your own lives. That's fine. Do what you please. But you're digging into a past that you won't be happy with, and what you think you want is not what you want at all. You won't get any satisfaction, so quit while you're ahead. You truly are better off not knowing."

"Bullshit!" Eren cried, his fist flying. Levi took a step back to enjoy the view a little better, Eren's arm coming down fast on Ilse. And then his wrist was caught by five slim, blackened fingers.

Annie had appeared beside Ilse out of nowhere. Her pale face was shadowed by her white hoodie, a new one, Levi noticed, and strands of her yellow hair were pooling into her drooping, empty blue eyes. She looked very small between Ilse and Annie. In fact, she looked like a child, lost and confused as her black fingers tightened around Eren's wrist, and the boy gasped in shock, crystals of ice blooming from the cracks and fissures of Annie's discolored hand. Icicles slithered across Eren's hand, and he jerked his arm back, kicking Annie in the stomach and causing her to grunt as her back connected with the cool gray stone behind her.

"Annie," Eren gasped, clutching his half-frozen fist to his chest, "what the hell?"

"Wrong response," Ilse said sadly.

Levi watched her. He looked from Ilse, who stood with her crimson arms folded, and Annie, who was looking at Eren with an empty expression, her head bowed ever so slightly in submission. And Levi understood. _She was following orders_, he thought numbly. _She killed Marco because somebody told her to. And she's doing the same thing now. She doesn't want to fight us_.

But it didn't matter. Because she would.

Levi went for Ilse. He lunged at her, and back handed her so hard it should have forced her to go flying into the concrete, and probably dislocate her shoulder. Her head did snap to the side from the force, and her body buckled a bit. And then she turned her face back to Levi and frowned. _She shouldn't be able to do that_, Levi thought. The blow should've made it too difficult for her to move her facial muscles without wincing.

"I did nothing to you," Ilse hissed at him, her eyes narrowing in disdain. Levi couldn't help but be a little surprised. "All I asked for was one tiny thing, and you attack me. You really are very rude, you know."

"Shut the fuck up," Levi snapped, backhanding her again. The same result. Only this time she smiled. And she laughed.

Levi heard Eren cry out in shock, and he turned to look at the boy. Annie had pushed off the wall, and she had thrown her legs out and slammed them into Eren's chest, forcing him to go flying. He stumbled as he flipped over parked car, and his body slid against the hood. Annie was on him again in a second, her blackened fingers flashing through the air. Ice sparkled as it sprung into existence around her hand, and snowflakes danced across her skin as she reeled her arm back to fling a bursting, shimmering sphere of ice at Eren's buckling form.

On reflex, Levi caught Annie by the arm, and he snapped it in two.

She screamed, and blinked in momentary terror before elbowing him in the face, forcing him to release her. Her ice had hit the car instead of Eren. And Levi's nose actually hurt a little. He touched it, blinking as his fingers came back moist and sticky. She'd hurt him. The fucking bitch had actually landed a blow that hurt him.

Annie stumbled back, and she clapped her hand against the arm Levi had snapped, instantly freezing it. Ice licked up her forearm, a little jagged, but almost symmetrical in its crystalline design. She slid her hand down her arm until the crystals enveloped her wrist and her fist, and she swung it at him like club. He blocked her with both arms, a jolt running through him as the ice connected with his bone, rattling his nerves a little. It almost hurt.

He kicked her in the stomach, and then kicked off her, flipping back and grabbing her iced arm and tossing her into the car that she'd kicked Eren into. Her body crashed into the door, leaving a rather large dent in its wake. Eren all but jumped over the hood and dropped beside her, pinning her shoulders to the dented door.

"Annie, what are you doing?" Eren snarled, shaking her furiously. She glared up at him, and slugged him across the jaw. His body went crashing to the sidewalk. Annie stood up, and she shot a glance at Levi. She drove her fist into the ice encasing her arm, and it fell away into glassy shards, crashing to the ground and shattering. She lowered her head, her hood falling across her face, and she raised her fists to eyelevel. Levi remembered that she had regenerative healing too.

Well, fuck.

When Levi glanced behind him, Ilse was gone. Figured.

Well, the least he could do was take Annie in for questioning. Arrest her for murder. Whatever.

Levi didn't get into any stance, or ready himself for her attack. He merely waited. And Annie waited too. Her reluctance did not go unnoticed, but Levi couldn't feel sorry for her. She had a will that she could use, and she was fighting for the wrong side. That was all he knew. So he looked at her, a tiny girl with raised fists and thin lips, and he tore a knife from within his sleeve and flung it at her. It hit her shoulder, and he dove for it as she blinked and gasped, and grabbed it by its hilt. He struck her face, her nose and her jaw in a quick rhythm, and before she could recuperate he struck her chest and grabbed the hand that held the hilt of his knife and squeezed it until all her bones cracked, and her screams filled his ears as she kneed him in the stomach, and ice crashed into his abdomen. He yanked the knife from her shoulder, pain lancing through his chest as he stumbled back for a moment, and then struck at her again.

With a knife at close range, it was easy to get her. He nicked her cheek, one then the other, leaving blood to slide against her pale cheeks like tears, and then he ducked her blackened fingers, ice whizzing past his ear as he stabbed her stomach, and sliced through her arm, blood glistening and hardening, ice seeping from her skin and crystallizing her injuries. He ducked her again, and blocked her arm while tossing the knife to his other hand and jamming the blade through her elbow, slicing it open and watching blood spill against her bright white hoodie. Her screams were rattling in his head. She kicked him in the chest. He buckled, and stabbed through her shoulder once again, his knife crushing the glittering red icicles that had healed her deep wound. And ice bloomed across his ribs, and squeezed them. She was gritting her teeth, he saw, because they were bare to him, and blood froze against her flushed cheeks. He was wearing her out of steam, but she was wearing him out too.

She kicked him in the chest once again, and his shirt became ice. His ribs felt like they were caving in, and she yanked out his knife and cut straight down, her arm a blur as the knife flashed, and he sprung back. He was fast enough that she only managed to shatter his sweatshirt, and cause a thin line of blood to spring from a very shallow wound. Levi exhaled sharply. He could disarm her again easily. She knew that. He could tell, because her eyes were darting around, looking for all the possible exits she had. She jumped back as a giant hand came crashing down right where she had been standing a moment earlier, and the fist cracked against the pavement. Levi blinked at Eren, who sat crouched beside the beaten car, one arm massive and stretching to catch Annie with massive fingers. Annie sliced right through one with Levi's knife, and she froze the rest, kicking and striking without thought, and the arm unraveled fast, chunks of flesh dropped and cracking against the sidewalk, icy from Annie's touch. She was fast, but nowhere close to his skill or even Mikasa's.

Eren looked confused, and he ducked as her leg jutted out, sailing over his head. He grabbed it and tried to yank her to the ground, but she threw Levi's knife. Its hilt smacked Eren in the head, clearly meant not to break his skin, and he let go with a short gasp. He looked irritated more than furious now.

Levi tore off the remains of his sweatshirt. He didn't need it now anyway. He'd need another strategy if he wanted to catch Annie. She was faster than he'd anticipated, but he was stronger and more precise. He landed more hits, and weakened her. He would win this fight.

His wings peeled from his back, gentle at first, and then with a furious, blinding pain, his skin tearing to allow glass to jut out from its depths, and they slithered into the air and clinked as they settled, folding and unfolding in a rattling array of uncertain stained glass. Tattoos that were attached to his skin through invisible strings, pulling at him like he was a marionette. He watched her eye him with frustration gleaming in her eyes, and as she sprung he pushed off. He kicked her in the face, and pushed off her shoulders, grabbing her arms and pinning them behind her back. He landed on the sidewalk behind her, and he whirled her around. Ice was licking up his fingers, but he didn't care.

"Knock her out," Levi ordered sharply. Eren pushed himself to his feet.

Levi choked on a gasp as something slid through him. Pain stung him, slicing up his abdomen and crushing him, taking him by utter surprise. His breath hitched, and he blinked rapidly as a long, slender icicle buried itself deeper into his side. Annie's heel connected with his toes, and he had no choice but to let go of her arms. Her hands had been behind her back, right where they needed to be to send ice right into his gut. He was a fucking moron.

Levi dropped to one knee, and very carefully yanked the icicle from his side. It clattered against the sidewalk, bright, wet red and glittering like a ruby, and he noticed for the first time how many spectators there were. People were not crowded around them, but at a distance there was a ring of people gathering to watch the fight ensue. Levi ducked his head, and pressed his hand to his profusely bleeding side. He blinked as Annie's knee came crashing into his face, sending him sprawling onto his back.

"Annie, stop!" Eren cried.

Levi watched her flick her wrist, and Eren fell across the pavement too, slipping on a patch of ice. He groaned, and clutched Levi's knife. It hovered over his palm, and Levi snapped at him, "Don't you fucking dare." Eren glanced at him in shock, his stomach pressed to the icy walkway.

Annie walked around Levi, and stood over him for a moment. Blood was spilling across his mouth, and it felt dirty. Disgusting. He tasted it, and it was familiar. He was blinded by the pain she'd inflicted. He hadn't felt this way in forever. He hadn't felt this way since his mother used to drag him to work and tell him to watch, and be quiet, and when he didn't listen to her it'd end like this, with his face caving in and his mind reeling from the idea of being weak. Disgusting.

She looked down at him. Because she could. Because suddenly, he was below her. He was the prey. Levi remembered that Mikasa hated Annie, and he could see why. She was pitiful, and she was ruthless.

"Are you gonna try and kill me, kid?" Levi asked her dully. His lips were swollen, and her words were coated with cotton. His nose was filling his mouth with a warm, metallic waterfall.

She glanced over his face. For a moment, her brow furrowed. And for a moment Levi thought she would speak, and admit to something, admit to anything. It wasn't my fault, she could say, or this is for you own good, or perhaps she could just taunt him like any comic book villain should.

But instead she said nothing. Her eyes dropped. She couldn't gaze at him directly.

And her foot crashed down upon him, stamping his left wing into the sun-bleached Roman sidewalk. Worn by a thousand feet, and carved up by a thousand glittering shards of blue glass. And Levi found that he was screaming, because it hurt, because his body was on fire, because his nerves were twisting and screaming and twisting again and wrapping around his throat, and he couldn't breathe. He was broken upon impact, and his heart hurt as he recalled the weeks it had taken to receive that tattoo. Weeks on end. He was losing himself, watching his heart devour itself, and it hurt too much to bear. He was sick to death. He was disgusted.

"No," Annie said quietly. "I just need to immobilize you."

Levi had always thought it stupid in movies when the villain revealed the plan when he thought the hero was down. It made sense to him now. Annie was telling him because either way, she'd won. Even if he managed to kill her now, his wing was beyond repair. And the only people who could repair it were the people she worked for.

Fuck. This was turning out bad.

"Levi?" Eren grabbed him by the arm, and attempted to pull him up. Annie had whirled away, and Levi's nostrils flared in fury. He grabbed a shard from his half-shattered wing, bright cobalt and glistening in the autumn sunlight. It cut into his fingers, slicing his skin with ease. He was numb to it. He felt like he'd stopped feeling all emotions as well as sensations. His tattoo was his freedom. And she'd stripped him of that.

"Annie!" Levi called. She didn't stop, nor did she glance back. "Annie, I can't fix this— look, Annie, look what you did!"

To his satisfaction, she did. And that was all he wanted, and all he needed.

He hefted himself upright, and hurled the glass at her after some quick aiming. He listened to the sound of her scream, the sound of glass burrowing into her eye, the soft _shlunk_ of it, and Levi jumped to his feet. He didn't feel the pain in his face or his side or even his back. He didn't feel a goddamn thing. And that was good. He needed to be numb to escape. He'd learned that well enough over the years.

"Run," he snapped to Eren, focusing his mind on retracting his wings. Shards of glass rattling against the sidewalk. Levi glanced at them, and went running. They flew into the air after him, and the pale, flickering glass of his right wing folded against his back and settled into his flesh. The tattoo felt whole. Perfect, even. But then there was the left side. Half the blue was there, steady and gleaming and smoothly folding into his skin. And then the rest was shards, collapsing against his shoulder blade and skittering around his flesh, and he felt the glass pierce him as he ran. It would hurt later. It should hurt now. But he was one-track minded, and he was fucking escaping.

They ran until Levi collapsed, and at that point they had made it to an alleyway narrower than the one they'd met the little boy whose name probably wasn't Marco in. He coughed, blood spewing from his lips, and he felt like he was going to throw up. Images of his mother passed through his head, but he couldn't see her face, just a blurry outline, and it was painful, and it was sickening. It was disgusting, and so was he.

"Levi…?" Eren sounded worried, and Levi didn't care.

"I'm fine."

"Um…" Eren sounded even more worried now, and Levi glanced at him sharply. "Yeah, no. Your back is… it's like, completely inflamed. Like bad. It's swollen and red, and it looks kinda infected."

"That's fuckin' dandy," Levi snapped.

"And…" Eren stared at him desperately. "We have a problem. Annie took my phone."

"What?"

"She took my phone, and probably yours too. And your wings are busted, so you can't fly us anywhere. Do we… do we have passports?"

"No." Levi pressed his back to the alley wall, and he was so thankful it was autumn, because the bricks were cool and soothing against his inflamed skin. They'd only been meant to stay in London for a night, and then Levi was going to fly them back. Passports seemed unnecessary. "I don't know. Unless Erwin packed them for us."

"We should go back to the hotel and check…" Eren looked at Levi, and he frowned. "After we go to the hospital."

"And tell them what?" Levi rolled his eyes toward the sky. "A winged serial killer got his tattoo crushed by a fifteen year old girl? I'll be fine when the shards settle."

Eren opened his mouth, but he seemed to have nothing to say. He looked pained. He looked exhausted. He looked enraged.

"What is wrong with her?" Eren asked, gritting his teeth as he turned his face away. "She's not… she's gotta be like, controlled, or something. Brainwashed. Maybe she was tricked."

"Eren," Levi said, pressing a hand to his side to staunch the bleeding. "She killed a boy. She beat both of us. She's not the girl you knew when you were younger, and she's not your friend."

Eren bowed his head. And Levi was disgusted with himself.

Because he wasn't sure if that was the truth.

* * *

_I chose London and Rome because I'm really familiar with those places (I went to both last summer), and I take any chance I can get to write about them. The Capuchin Crypt is my favorite place ever, go there. I actually might have messed up the order of the vaults, though, so eek! Sorry!_

_Instead of finishing my Latin final (a letter in latin, take home, clearly), I finished a chapter of this. You're welcome. Here's to my sinking Latin grade. _

_Once again exploring the weird paternal instincts Levi has, but his inability to actually act on them well enough to be a good father figure. He's a terrible dad. At least he makes Mikasa do her homework._


	16. glory paid to ashes comes too late

**_cineri gloria sera est_**

**Salem, Oregon**

_a.d. pr. Idus Octobres, 2677 A.U.C_

Jean had always despised going to church. He wasn't pious, he wasn't even remotely religious, and yet his mother had always dragged him every Christmas Eve. She'd dressed him up in a stuffy little suit, and smoothed down his unruly hair, and told him to be quiet and pray. Jean had nothing to pray for. Not then, and not now. He just sat, then and now, biting the inside of his cheek and shifting the hymn books around in their little shelf. His suit felt scratchy and constricting. His lungs were on fire.

There were a lot of people at this funeral. The guy who died must've had a lot of friends, and lived a really long, really fulfilling life. Not like Marco. Marco didn't have a public funeral. His mother had wanted it small, with only a handful of people there to attend. Jean had not been on that list. He couldn't even manage to sneak into the funeral, because she'd moved the body all the way out here and buried him so quickly that Jean was still feeling a little empty. In their one conversation over the phone, Elizabeth Bodt had told Jean that she'd been planning to move herself and Marco out to Oregon anyway, so it made no sense to bury him in Chicago. Jean had been so angry that he'd smoked six cigarettes in a row just to calm himself down.

They didn't get to sit with Connie, but Jean could see the kid's head from where he sat at the back of the church, sandwiched between Sasha Braus, the archery girl, Freeshooter, and Reiner. The priest told the homily completely in Spanish, and in the middle of it Ymir burst into a fit of laughter, which caused a lot of people to shoot her dirty looks. At one point, Armin left the pew and disappeared. After about ten minutes, Jean turned to Reiner.

"Where'd Armin go?" he whispered. A hymn served as a backdrop to his loss.

Reiner shrugged his massive shoulders. "Isn't he an atheist?" he whispered back, his heavy brow furrowing. "Maybe he just couldn't listen anymore."

Jean sat in the pew, and saw Connie turn his head toward them. He caught Jean's eye, and made a subtle motion with his finger against his temple. He seemed to be utterly crushed by his grandfather's death, all right. "Maybe," Jean said, though he didn't really believe it.

Connie's grandfather had passed away a day or two after Marco. Connie had called Jean up very excitedly when it had happened, because by that point Marco's body had already been recovered, and Jean had just smoked six cigarettes, and he was scratching at the scar on his arm as he answered the phone, angry and disgusted at Elizabeth Bodt and Annie Leonhardt and the entire world.

"_My grandpa just died_!" Connie had cried into the phone, his voice all too enthusiastic.

"What?" Jean had sat up in bed, blinking at the poster on the wall across from him. It was a movie poster of _Fight Club_. "Uh, I'm sorry?"

"_Nah, don't be_," Connie had said. "_He's been sick for as long as I can remember. He wanted to die so bad that he stopped taking his meds for a while, and— well, that was a while ago, but anyway, the point is, I'm not really sad. My mom is, but I think she was expecting it. Anyway, the point is, you guys are all invited to come to the funeral! Since, you know, Marco is being buried in the same cemetery and all_."

"Wait," Jean had said in awe, "_what_?"

"_I know_!" Connie sounded close to laughter. "_Isn't it weird? My mom was talking to the priest, and I asked if he knew who's doing Marco's funeral, and it's him! How crazy that? You won't actually be able to make his funeral, but at least you can see his grave when you come here. And you guys can meet my family too, and Sasha's. They're all pretty anxious about it. My little brother keeps calling us the Avengers, and I want you guys to crush his dreams by showing him that we're not actually that cool_."

Jean had forgotten that Connie and Sasha didn't hide their hero identities from their parents. He wished he could be that candid with his mother, but at this point, with Marco dead, he knew he would never be able to come clean. He was stuck in this lie, and he had to live in it. It was an incredibly vacuous space to fill.

"Um, okay," Jean had said numbly. "I need an excuse to tell my mom, though."

"_Hange can probably cover you_," Connie said, "_can't they? They're like, y'know, hella rich_."

"Right," Jean said. "So?"

"_So they can probably cover your ass_."

And Hange definitely did. Jean was now apparently part of a travelling gymnastics team. Marco had been part of it too, Hange lied to his mother, and they were all going to Oregon for his funeral. Jean's mother would never be able to attend his "competitions", so this would work out well for him. It had, of course, occurred to him that he could stop vigilantism. Marco's death should have given him a way out, but it didn't feel right. Jean couldn't run away from this, not when Marco had died for it, and not when Annie was still out there somewhere.

So here Jean was. At a really huge Mexican funeral. Connie's grandpa knew a fuck ton of people, that was for sure. They were all very quiet, which made Jean a little fidgety and uncomfortable. There were so many people, and they all seemed to have the utmost respect for the man who had passed away. And Jean was amazed, because he'd never been to a funeral so huge and so reverent before.

After the ceremony, Jean booted it out of the church as fast as he could. He weaved through the graves, inhaling the crisp autumn air, which was thick with the acidic taste of forthcoming rain. Jean kicked crinkled brown leaves from the gravel path, shoving his hands into his coat pockets, and feeling his throat constrict with disgust and fury and anguish. He didn't know why he'd taken up this offer. He didn't want to see Marco's grave, not really. What he wanted was Marco back. He wanted Marco to laugh beside him, and joke about how he dumb, and that he needed to seek some help, and how he was gonna get sick from smoking.

Marco was supposed to outlive Jean. Marco was going to stand over Jean's hospital bed when Jean was dying, and tell him that death was inevitable. Wasn't that what Marco had said? He'd sounded so certain of it.

And yet, here he was. A mound of dirt in a very nice cemetery, where the pathways were paved in smooth white gravel, and flowers were planted along the fences, and framing the sections of graves. There was a plaque that read Marco Bodt's name. His date of birth. His date of death. Below that was some phrase in Latin. _Cineri gloria sera est_. Now what the fuck could that mean?

Jean didn't want to talk to a grave. He wanted to talk to Marco. His throat ached. His heart was thudding hard against his ribs, and his eyes stung with fresh tears. He hadn't cried yet. It was killing him, and he knew it, the tears and the weight and the sorrow building up to a cataclysm. Jean was prepping himself to become a human time bomb. He was ticking away his precious emotions, inhaling apathy and exhaling smoke. Tears stung like the wind's vicious snap, teeth snarling at his flushed cheeks. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair.

"You died for nothing," Jean snapped at the fresh mound of earth. "The intel we got doesn't connect _The Brigade_ to the institute. We're not any closer to figuring any of this bullshit out. You wasted your death."

That wasn't exactly true. The intel they had gotten hinted at the facility that had experimented on the other kids, but they had yet to get a real hold on what they were dealing with. Petra Ral had asked them to give her a week in order to decipher all the encrypted files. There were, apparently, a lot. But what was to be expected from a news company built by a government intending to feed lies to its people? Jean wondered how Marco would react to that little confirmation.

So Jean was now part of a team of fucked up lab rats who were black mailing the president. His best friend had died because of it. And he was standing in front of his grave, unsure of what to do now or how to go forward with his pitiful fucking life.

What information had they gained from that three part mission of failure? Alpha Squad was still in Europe, Marco had died for a USB drive, and somehow the most successful part of the mission was literally kidnapping and blackmailing the president. What the fuck? What the actual fuck?

Jean was psyching himself out, though. He didn't know everything yet. None of them did. There were scraps of information shared between them, but nothing concrete. They hadn't the chance to converse on it yet, so here they were, thinking it was all for nothing. Maybe it had been. They didn't fucking know, and it was the worst.

He pulled his carton of cigarettes from his coat pocket, and he stuck a joint between his teeth and fumbled with his lighter. The wind was guttering out the flame as his thumb struck and struck and stuck at the trigger, and he listened to his heart thud against his ribs, his broken heart expanding in his throat. Tears stung his eyes, and his lips trembled as he struck and struck and struck at the lighter, the wind striking and striking and striking at his cheeks with just as much fervor, and much more success. His face had caught flame, and he was shaking so badly he wanted to scream in frustration, because he was not like this, not ever, and it hurt to breath.

A warm hand pressed to his trembling, fumbling fingers. Jean dropped the lighter into the mound of fresh, damp dirt. His cigarette drooped between his lips sadly, and he choked on a swear. He shook Ymir's hand off him, and shot her a furious look.

The girl's dark face seemed out of place against the white marble mausoleum behind her. She was wearing a plain black dress, shapeless and a little vintage in style. The skirt went below her knees, and the collar was trimmed with white lace. She snapped her fingers, and a little yellow flame breathed into existence around her dark, freckled forefinger. It danced against the vicious breeze.

"Need a light?" Ymir offered, with her strange drawl and her clever gaze. She made his skin crawl.

He was numb to it. And so he nodded, and she lifted her finger to the end of his cigarette, and he was relieved to suck in the blooming taste of smoke as it sprawled across his tongue and filled his lungs. He exhaled it through his nose, and pulled the cigarette from his lips. "Thanks," he breathed.

"Nah, don't," Ymir said, smiling wolfishly. Her teeth gleamed, and Jean felt uneasy to be around her. She looked like the type of person who'd gladly devour anyone in sight. She was predatory. Vicious. Unreal. "You can pay me back for it later."

"Wow, goodie." Jean stuck the cigarette between his teeth again. "Who the fuck are you, anyway?"

"Ymir," she said.

"Yeah, no shit," Jean took a drag, and spoke with smoke licking at his lips and digging into his stinging eyes. "I know that. I mean like, where'd you even come from? What's your story?"

"The same as everyone else's, I suppose," Ymir said loftily. "What's yours, mister no power? Got a death wish like the stiff over her?" She jerked her thin, pointy chin at Marco's grave. And Jean exhaled smoke so sharply it burnt his nostrils.

"Shut the fuck up," he snapped at her. "You didn't know Marco. You can't say shit about him."

"Easy there, big fella," Ymir cooed. "I was teasing. I ain't got no beef with you, nor the poor sucker in this hole. Not anything that I'm currently aware of, anyhow." She smiled, and it was dim.

The air was heavy. He was heavy. With guilt. And sorrow. And apathy.

Because he realized something.

The world wasn't all that different without Marco Bodt in it.

And that terrified him.

"Sorry," Jean found himself saying quietly, his eyes turning back to the grave. "I'm not really in the joking mood."

"Yeah, I get it. My boner."

"Your _what_?" Jean looked at her sharply, alarmed as his eyes flickered from her face to her crotch and back to her face in a quick, bewildered motion. And Ymir smirked.

"My blunder," she corrected herself very calmly. "It's slang, buddy boy. It's got nothin' to do with the penis I do not possess."

"What kind of fucking slang is that?"

"Um, the colloquial kind," Ymir said smoothly.

Jean glanced at her. He took another drag from his cigarette. "Nevermind," he sighed.

Ymir watched him. Dark eyes, dark skin, and a smile too tight to be real. She was pretty in the same way fire was, believe it or not. As in, Jean wouldn't mind looking at her from a good ten feet away, but up close she was terrifying to behold. She folded her arms across her chest, and she bowed her head to peer at the plaque.

"Marco," she said. She said it softly. As if to test the name in her mouth. Jean watched her expression, the way her eyes softened, and her nose wrinkled. "So sad."

"We'll get back at her for him," Jean said dully. He didn't know if he believed it or not, but it always made him feel better to say it out loud. "She'll feel what she did to him, I swear to god, she'll feel every bit of him she shattered."

Ymir was looking at him out of the corner of her eye. She laughed. "I always thought Annie was unlucky," she said. "Now I know, though. She never had a chance."

"You lived with her," Jean said, whirling to face Ymir with a furrowed brow. "Why would she do this?"

Ymir snorted. "Oh," she said, "yes, because I lived with her I know all the answers. Please. All I've got is theories. And theories mean jack, buddy boy."

"People don't just kill people for no reason," Jean said breathlessly, smoke spilling from his lips. His cigarette burned brightly, and paper wilted sadly. He wasn't feeling any better. Perhaps he should have another.

"They do when they're trained killers," Ymir said coolly.

"Annie?" Jean hadn't even thought of that. Had Annie been… trained to kill? "Seriously? But she's so…"

"Tiny?" Ymir's smile was bright and knowing. Her eyes were glinting madly. "Oh, yes. They're the best killers, didn't you know?"

"I never thought of it," Jean said, blinking confusedly. "When I think of killers, I think of big guys with guns. You think Annie's a killer because she's small?"

"I think smaller people are less likely to be suspected," Ymir said, "and they take advantage of that. Look at Annie. And Levi. And Armin." Her lips curled, and Jean stared at her incredulously. "Killers, killers, killers. Ain't it tragic, Jean? They're all around us. We're trying to fight 'em, but we're helping them win."

"Armin's not a killer," Jean said firmly. "And Levi's… I dunno, he's reformed. Mikasa trusts him, okay? He can't be that bad."

"And Annie's just a girl," Ymir said, "who might have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or maybe she's an assassin. Maybe Marco had it coming. Or maybe Marco begged for it." Ymir laughed, and Jean flung his cigarette away in disgust. This girl was fucking crazy. "We just don't know!"

"You're terrible," he snapped at her. "You're a terrible person, Ymir!"

"Aw, suck it up," Ymir yawned. "I'm just offering you my theories on why she did it. You asked, didn't you?"

_I don't want to know_, Jean wanted to gasp. _I don't want to know anymore, I just want him back, is that so fucking wrong?_

"I…" Jean's throat was on fire, and his hands were trembling at his sides. "I… Urgh!" He whirled away from her. "Fuck it! I don't even care!"

"Liar!" Ymir sang. He stopped amidst the graves, and whirled to face her again, his heels digging into the ground and kicking up grass. "You should just cry already. You'll feel much better, I promise."

"Fuck you," Jean snarled.

"Cry." Ymir's smile fell, and her dark eyes no longer glittered. Her freckled arm stretched toward him, and beckoned him to come back. Her black fingernails twitched at him, and they spoke to him, whispering that he was selfish. He was a selfish person. And if he wanted to change that, he had to listen to Ymir. So he let his feet move forward, uncertain and stumbling.

"I don't want to cry in front of you," Jean said fiercely, his voice thick and his heart sputtering in despair.

"Then don't." Ymir's arm dropped to her side, and she knelt before the grave with her black dress hugging her knees. "Hold it all in, buddy boy. Just let it eat you up, and then you'll just hate yourself even more when you finally burst open and spill all that hate you've got buildin' inside you."

"Stop calling me buddy boy, you bitch."

"Ooh," Ymir sneered. "My mistake. _Pendejo_."

"I'm failing English," Jean said, "do you really think I understood that?"

"Nope," Ymir said brightly. "That's why I said it."

"God, get up," Jean groaned, burying his head in his hands. "Get off the ground, Ymir, you're getting your dress all dirty."

"Am I ever going to wear it again?" Her eyes met Jean's, and her smile was elusive. "Maybe it'll be my funeral next time. Eh, Jean?"

"Don't joke about things like that," Jean said uneasily.

"Don't joke," she sighed. "That's all you say. Bet Marco jokes." Her eyes turned to the plaque. She winced, probably catching her tense mishap. "Bet he joked tons."

"He did, I guess…" Jean shook his head furiously. "He wouldn't have liked you. You're too rude."

"Doubt it," she said softly.

Jean doubted it too. Marco had trouble hating anyone. Even awful people like Ymir. "Why are you here?" he asked her. "Why are you grilling me over this shit?"

"You're the one who can't compromise," she said sharply. Jean was surprised, because she was sitting in her black dress, her knees digging into the soft, damp earth before the grave a boy she hadn't known. And Jean, Marco's best friend, was standing shakily at a distance. "Get over yourself, will you?"

"I don't get what the hell you think you're doing," Jean said stiffly. He didn't want to get any closer, and yet he was drifting toward the grave, skirting the mound and shaking against the snarling wind. "You didn't know him. You don't even know me. So don't tell me to get over myself, when my best friend had half his fucking head shattered into a thousand pieces."

"Maybe I didn't know him," she said, a piece of dark hair falling from its elegant knot at the back of her head, and falling like a black streak of paint across her deeply freckled forehead. "But we don't know Connie's grandpa, either, and we still went to his funeral."

"You laughed in the middle of it," Jean stated dully.

"I realized somethin', is all," she said. She folded her hands in her lap. "I found it funny. No one else has to. Anyway, you should really say goodbye to your friend while you still can." Ymir looked at him, and her dark eyes narrowed. "You might find yourself regretting it if you don't."

"He's already gone," Jean said miserably. "What's left to say goodbye to?"

Ymir sighed. "You're a real idiot, _chico_. It's almost impressive." She didn't look very impressed, though. She was staring at Marco's grave with squared shoulders, her lips pressed thinly together, and her body very still. "You've gotta say goodbye. You have to let people go when they leave you. It's just better that way."

He wanted to scream at her for being such a bitch. Didn't she understand how hard this was for him? _Of course she doesn't_, Jean thought numbly_, because she's not mourning anyone. She's just here to be a casual observer. Nothing more_. "What if I don't want to say goodbye?" Jean asked her, feeling steadier than he had all day. "What then?"

Ymir pushed herself upright, mud swirling wet brown circles around her knees and streaking in broad strokes down her dress. And she smiled her crooked, fearsome smile. "Then don't," she chirped. "Rot in your guilt, Jean. Why should I care?"

"I'm not guilty for not wanting to say goodbye," he snapped.

"No," she said, yanking at her sleeves and rolling them up. "You're guilty because you think that holding onto him will make it hurt less. You're guilty because you can't let go."

"He just died!" Jean threw his hands into the air furiously. "I'm not going to be over it in a few fucking days!"

"You'll never be _over it_," Ymir retorted. "But you can let it go. You won't, though." She brushed past him, stretching her long, freckled arms up over her head as she paused beside him. One arm lingered in the air, and Jean thought for a moment that she'd burst into flames with the withering look she gave him. She smiled her wolfish, gleaming white grin, and he felt her smile tear through his gut. He had to resist the urge to punch her as she lowered her arms, and prodded Jean's heart with her stubby black fingernail. "Because you, _mi hermano_, are guilty."

"Get the fuck out of here, Ymir," he said, watching her warily. "I'm not going to tell you again."

"Yeah," she said with her smile causing her dimples to cave into her cheeks. "Like you could take me, toothpick."

"I'm not fighting you in a cemetery," he hissed. "Just go. Just please, _go_."

She turned to face him, and her brow furrowed in confusion. "Do you hate me now?" she asked, looking genuinely stunned. "I wasn't… ugh." She rolled her eyes. "_Mierda_. I'm not any good with consolation, all right? I just think you'd be better off if you let Marco go."

_She was teasing me_, Jean realized uneasily. _That entire time, she was just teasing me. Because that's just what she does_.

"Well, I'm not going to," he said. "So you can forget it."

She stood with a frown, her eyes searching his face. She still looked surreal, like she didn't really belong where she was standing, and it was a nagging in his gut every time he looked at her, but she seemed to have realized her mistake. She looked awkward now. Perhaps she had thought she and Jean were playing a game. Yes, that was it. She thought that the teasing had been mutual. She was a bully, and a bitch, and he wanted to hate her.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Jean yelped. Ymir had snapped a silver chain from around her neck, and she marched up to Marco's grave again.

"Proving that people can let go," she sang, her voice a sweet, rasping lilt of whirling accents. They stung as they whipped through the air, her words painted like strokes across the sky's canvas. She was visceral, and she was terrifying. And she was like something made to be observed, a work of art stuck in a human body, and he wanted to hate her for that. She was scary. She was unreal. A silver necklace dangled from her speckled fist. Rain was beginning to mist about her, fogging around the witch's muddy feet. "Well, actually… taking my own advice."

And then she smiled back at Jean. And he took a step back in shock.

She had a pretty smile. Warm, and sad, but pretty. She wasn't teasing him anymore. She wasn't being feral or rude. She was trying to make amends, because she had realized that she had upset him, and perhaps she was trying at kindness. And it scared him. This girl scared him so badly that he wanted to run away from her, sprint through the graves and into the fog and never return. She stood before Marco's mound of earth, black eyes and tightly bound brown hair, and mud streaked black dress with a white-laced collar, and mist dancing up her legs and curling around her throat. She really did look like a witch, standing there and humming under her breath. She tossed the necklace into the mud that held Marco Bodt, and Jean watched it sink heavily into the moist earth.

"Let's say goodbye together," Ymir said cheerfully, though her face had grown solemn. She offered out her hand, her black fingernails stretching toward him. "To your past, and to mine."

Jean wanted to say no. Because he didn't want to say goodbye. It was too soon to say goodbye, and it wasn't fair, it wasn't fair, it wasn't fair. The mist was not letting up, and it spat in his face as the wind kicked up. Leaves skittered across the foggy grass and got snarled in the mound of mud that had swallowed Marco up. And Jean very slowly shuffled to Ymir's side. He didn't want to take her hand, because she scared him. But he figured, it was about fucking time he stopped being a coward. If Ymir scared him, then how could he possible face Annie?

He grasped Ymir's hand.

"You're a fucking bitch," Jean mumbled.

"I try," she said sweetly, staring at the locket she had dropped into the mud. She didn't look very sad, but at the same time she had lost a lot of her bite. She was still scary, but in a different way. She was scary in that she was unpredictable. Jean didn't know how to let go of Marco, like Ymir had advised, but he felt a little better just… holding someone's hand. He hadn't realized it, but the last few days had been very… very lonely.

They'd held hands for about thirty seconds before Ymir pulled back, and she folded her arms across her chest while averting her gaze. Jean glanced at her curiously, though he felt a little sick from the knowledge that Marco's body was only a few feet away. Decomposing.

"What is that?" Jean asked, pointing to the locket in the mud. It was still glistening against the mist.

She shrugged. "A family heirloom," she said bitterly, her smile back to being tight and wolfish. "Haven't got any family any more, though, so it ain't worth the bull."

"I'm sorry," he said unthinkingly.

"Why?" She glanced at him, and then she rolled her eyes. "Because I don't got no family? Listen, bucko, I've gone a real long time without anyone, and I'm pretty damn glad." She rocked on her heels, and he watched her, and wondered if she was lying. "Anyhow, isn't there a shindig post-funeral?"

"That's what Connie said," Jean said. "And he wants us to meet his family, so…"

"Swell," Ymir said dryly, tilting her head toward the steely gray sky.

"They seem nice," Jean offered.

Ymir quirked an eyebrow at him. She peered behind his shoulder, and she smirked. "Lots of people seem nice," Ymir said. She blew her hair from her forehead, and whistled sharply, the sound striking through the air. "Hey, Christa!"

Jean glanced behind him, and saw that the tiny blonde girl had stumbled from the paved gravel path, and was weaving between graves uncertainly. She didn't look scared, really, just uncomfortable. As though she didn't feel like she should be stepping where she was stepping. Jean couldn't blame her.

"Hello, Jean," Christa said, smiling up at him gently. She had the sweetest of smiles, and it was contagious. Even if his own smile wasn't real, he couldn't help but turn his lips upward at her. Her vibrant eyes flickered from Ymir to Marco's grave. Her shoulders slumped. "So… that's it, then…?"

"Yep," Ymir said, "his body's right down there. Right there." She pointed, and Jean felt his stomach twist in horror. He knew, he knew, he knew, and it didn't help at all. He was sickened by the thought. "So sad."

"You're being a bitch again," he told her sharply.

"I'm always a bitch, _chico_," Ymir sighed. "But at least I own it."

"Yeah, whatever."

Christa was staring at the grave. Her dress was much more modern than Ymir's, with a short, full black skirt that ruffled above her knees, and blue roses embroidered around the collar. She was looking from the mound of mud to the plaque and back. Jean thought that she would point out the locket in the mud, glinting against the mist and the gray light, but she didn't.

Instead she blurted, "Glory paid to ashes comes too late."

"What the holy fucking hell—?" Jean choked, taking a very careful step away from the tiny girl. She flushed bright red, and pushed the stray curls of bouncy yellow hair from her eyes. Ymir had burst into a fit of laughter, which Jean ignored.

"It's—" Christa shot Ymir a desperate look, and Jean pitied her, because she was making this so much worse. "It's L-Latin, I… I know…" She ducked her head in shame. "I know Latin…"

"Oh." Jean almost laughed too, now that he thought about it. He glanced at the plaque. _Cineri Gloria sera est_. Glory paid to ashes comes too late. Right. He got it now. "I… I didn't realize, wow. You're really smart, Christa."

"Not really…" She was staring at her feet, and her curls wilted against the drizzle of rain. "But thank you."

"Don't inflate her ego now, _mi hermano_," Ymir cooed, elbowing Jean playfully. He glared at her, but he found that it was only half-hearted. _She's not so bad_, Jean found himself thinking. _Weird, but not bad_.

"Not your brother, bitch," Jean cooed right back.

"_Mi amigo_, then?" Ymir offered, waggling her eyebrows.

"If this is what you call friendship," he said dryly, smirking ever so slightly, "then you're way more fucked up than I thought."

"Oh, buddy, you've seen nothin' yet." She grinned toothily, and whacked his arm while snatching Christa's. "Okay, let's go greet the Constantino."

"Connie doesn't like his full name, Ymir," Christa reminded.

"Yeah," Ymir said, "I know."

Christa sighed, and glanced back at Jean. She smiled vaguely, but he could tell she was a little irritated. It was interesting to see how they interacted, the angelic girl and the devil's bitch. It was an odd friendship. _But then_, Jean thought, a stone dropping into his stomach, _me and Marco were exactly the same_. It disturbed him, this revelation, because he'd never thought himself rude and terrible like Ymir. But now that he thought about it, it wasn't surprising.

They trekked from the path down to the church, and then from the church to the parking lot. Hange glanced at them as they appeared. Armin was standing on their left, his head bowed, and his face pasty and his eyes flickering anxiously from the ground to their faces and back. He looked like half a corpse propped upright. And swaying. Mikasa was on her phone, frowning at it worriedly, and Reiner and Bertholdt were chatting idly with Sasha. Erwin stepped up to greet them.

"Is no one else gonna visit Marco's grave?" Jean asked sharply.

Erwin took Jean's tone in a stride. "Eren and Levi have gone MIA," Erwin said very gently. "We're trying to contact them. It could be nothing."

"They missed their check in time," Hange said with a dim smile.

Jean knew he should be more worried, but it didn't strike him as terrible that Levi and Eren were missing. Jean had lost a lot in a few days. He wasn't concerned about Levi and Eren possibly being missing. At least, he wasn't concerned until he noticed Mikasa's face. Her eyes were glued to her cell phone, her teeth tearing slowly at her lower lip. Jean could see blood beginning to bead against the ripped epidermis. Her knuckles were white, and her brow was furrowed. He'd never seen her so scared in all the time he'd known her.

He'd forgotten. Levi and Eren were the closest thing she had to family. He'd forgotten, because he couldn't let go.

Ymir was right. He _was_ guilty.

"Are they going to be okay?" Jean found himself asking.

"We're going to give them until the next check in," Erwin said. "If they miss it, we'll be heading home, and Hange will be in Italy by sunrise tomorrow. We hope."

"Wow…" Jean didn't really know what to say. All he could think was that it should have been a lot harder to kidnap the president if this was how the other missions turned out. With one member dead and two of the strongest missing.

They all filed into the rental van, Jean squeezing between Ymir and Bertholdt, and he saw that the tall boy kept looking at Ymir nervously scooting so he was at the edge of his seat. Ymir had noticed. She'd glanced at Bertholdt and scoffed. Bertholdt pressed his lips together into a thin white light, and he rubbed his knuckles anxiously, his long legs bobbing against each other as the car moved.

Jean felt empty. As though he hadn't even mourned Marco. He'd just… let him die. And then left him there. Jean had been so utterly lost upon finding the body, he'd pressed his emergency button. That had been a bad idea. They had to leave the body and run. It had been recovered and identified. Marco Bodt was dead, and it was like it hadn't even happened. It felt like it hadn't even happened. Jean's mother avoided the topic, but Jean felt like he was missing something. Like a limb.

Bertholdt was biting his nails. They cracked between his teeth. Jean wondered what he was hearing in that moment. Perhaps it was the president. Perhaps it was Father Nick. Perhaps he couldn't hear anything, and had learned to tune out the voices. Jean wondered. He kinda wanted it. That anxious knowing, knowing, knowing that there's something wrong in your head that you can't control, instead of being in control and knowing, knowing, knowing that there's nothing wrong. That he was just lonely.

He was jealous of someone with schizophrenia. Jean really needed another cigarette.

He rubbed his hands on his knees, his eyes moving between Bertholdt, scratching at his knuckles idly, idly, idly, and then to Ymir, whose dress was smeared with mud. She was twisting the lace collar of her dress. Her fingers kept slipping beneath it, and then quickly fumbling at nothing. If Jean kept observing her, he knew she'd look at him, so he averted his gaze. _She must have a habit_, he thought, _of twisting the chain from her locket_.

If Marco were here, he would have noticed that. He would have watched Ymir do as she did now, pat down her collar and glare at her lap, and he would have said something to distract Jean from noticing too. But Marco wasn't here to distract him. And Jean was noticing.

"What was your family like?" Jean asked her quietly. He felt the need to whisper, because the van was very quiet.

Ymir looked at him, and he knew he'd shocked her. But she relaxed in her seat, and rested her head back against her seat. "Bossy," she said, smiling bitterly. "Manipulative. Selfish. Take your pick, buddy boy. My family was awful."

Jean bit back an apology. "That's rough," he said.

"Yeah, well." She sniffed, and jerked her shoulders in a shrug. "I mean, can't complain. Haven't got 'em anymore."

"Lucky you," Bertholdt said softly. Ymir shot him a sharp, furious look that melted into a chilly glint.

"Did you hear something, Jean?" Ymir asked very loudly. Reiner turned around to look at her with narrowed eyes. "Thought I heard a cricket chirping. Aren't they invertebrates?" She laughed, and it was a vicious sound.

"What?" Jean asked very slowly. He had no idea why she was acting so strange. But he was beginning to suspect that Ymir was just an eccentric person.

"Don't make me explain the joke," Ymir whined.

"It's because I'm spineless," Bertholdt said suddenly, his voice cracking miserably. "Isn't that right, Ymir?"

Ymir studied the tall boy's face with a dull expression. The car ran over a pothole, and they all jolted except for her. She stayed utterly still.

"Yep," she cooed. "You're a coward, all right, gams."

Jean looked between Bertholdt and Ymir, and he felt like he'd caught a bit of an old argument, or the end of a conversation. He wasn't seeing the whole picture here. He'd missed something, he was sure of it. Fuck, this was infuriating. "Why are you putting him down?" Jean hissed at her.

"Because it's easy," Ymir hissed back.

"Stop fighting," Christa gasped from the seat in front of them.

"No, carry on," Erwin called from the front seat. Jean flushed in shame, and glowered at Ymir, who smirked so broadly her dimples showed. "I'm curious on where this will go. I assume this isn't the first time this sort of occurrence has happened… Bertholdt?"

The boy sat awkwardly, his back straight and his legs tucked rather close to his chest. "It…" He threw a panicked glance at Ymir. "It's… we were only…"

"It happens all the time," Reiner said suddenly. "But Ymir just does it to everyone. She's a bitch like that."

"Guilty," she yawned.

Armin twisted in his seat to face them. His face was pale. There were dark circles under his eyes that Jean had not noticed before. _He hasn't slept much_, Jean thought sadly. _Not since Marco died_. The mark on his chin from the recoil of Jean's semiautomatic handgun was nothing more than a faint yellowish bruise on Armin's child-like face. His eyes were tired, but alert. They moved from Bertholdt to Ymir and back.

Armin smiled gently, his lips stretching, and Jean winced. He could see that they were chapped and cracking. He saw the skin separate. Armin folded his arms on the headrest of his own seat, and rested his chin against them. "Your power has such an extreme effect on you, Bertholdt," Armin said. "But how does your power affect other people?"

Bertholdt seemed to blanch at Armin's question. "W-what?" he laughed nervously, blinking rapidly as he sunk into his seat. "I… I don't… I've never thought…"

Armin shrugged. "Sorry," he said weakly, his tired eyes closing. "Just curious."

He turned around again. And Jean sensed once again that there was something he was missing. _Marco would notice_, he told himself. _Marco would know immediately_. There was an old animosity between Ymir and Bertholdt. Bertholdt was a coward for some fucking reason, and Ymir was… a bitch, like always. And Armin knew something. Armin knew, because…

Armin had read Ymir's mind.

Jean remembered the finger-shaped welts on Armin's forehead on the night of the mission. He remembered that Armin's power was strongest when people touched him. It was the most extreme form of intimacy for Armin, and it hurt him. But he gained information from that.

Jean would have to ask.

They showed up at Connie's house, which was a nice size. It wasn't as big as Marco's, but it was far better than Jean's apartment. There were little kids running through the front yard, tripping in the grass and laughing excitedly, their black clothes getting smeared with mud just like Ymir. Their parents would not be pleased, whoever they were.

At the door, Connie was greeting people with a tightlipped smile. "Thanks for coming," he said in a placid tone. He stood as though a metal rod was attached to his spine. And then, with his eyes darting away from their faces, he slumped in relief. "Holy shit, my mom looked like she was gonna kick my scrawny ass up to Vancouver and back. I've been doing this for an hour."

"Sucks to suck, little man," Ymir quipped.

"You should be nice to me," Connie said, forcing his body to cover the entire doorway. "Or else you won't get any food."

"I'm not Sasha," Ymir said with a snort. "I can live without it."

Connie opened his mouth to retort, but a shrill voice barked from inside the house, "_Constantino, d__é__jalos entrar, inmediatamente_!" Connie's eyes bulged for a split second before he quickly shuffled out of their way.

Ymir clapped him on the shoulder as she passed him. "_Gracias, Constantino_," she chirped. Connie glared at her back.

Jean had been to funerals before, but he'd never gone to anyone's house afterward. It was weird. Everyone was talking, using soft voices, sometimes laughing and nodding, but otherwise it was just as reverent as it had been at the church. There were pictures everywhere in Connie's house. Poster boards of pictures of the dead man, grinning in black and white and gaping in color and standing tall and proud and sepia. Connie's grandpa had gotten around, it looked like. From landmark to landmark, laughing and jumping and kissing girls and hugging others and waving and frowning and sneering. Connie's grandpa had been alive once. Jean didn't even know him. Jean hadn't even caught his name.

They were there for about fifteen minutes before Jean got bored. He saw Ymir's face floating amongst the masses, her hair pulled back in a tight knot, and freckles faint against her long nose, and Jean marched up to her. He wanted to ask her why she'd been so mean to Bertholdt. Because it was bothering him. Bertholdt had enough fucking problems without Ymir's big fucking mouth making him more anxious.

"Ymir," he said. She didn't turn. He stared at the back of her head, the plain knot and brown hair, and he exhaled sharply in irritation. He grabbed her shoulder. "Ymir!"

She whirled around to face him, her eyebrows shooting up, and her eyes narrowing. Jean realized his mistake immediately, and took a step back in shock. "Oh my god," he gasped, finding himself a little mortified. The girl was shorter than Ymir by far, and Jean realized that now as he looked down at her. She only had a few freckles, and they were almost too faint to really see. Her eyebrows were slanted inward. Like Connie's. "You're not Ymir. Holy shit, I am so sorry."

She blinked at him curiously. She tilted her head, and shrugged. "It's fine," she said. "You're one of Connie's friends, right?"

"Yeah…" Jean didn't know if he could say that for sure. He didn't really know Connie all that well. Just… sparingly. "I'm Jean."

She smirked, and nodded. "Yep, he's talked about you," she said, glancing up at the ceiling. "Ricochet. You're a gymnast."

Jean would never get used to the fact that Connie's family knew. "Yeah…" he repeated, swallowing his embarrassment. "Um… wow, I really can't believe I did that. I'm sorry."

"It happens with my sister all the time, so it's not a big deal." She shrugged. "I'm Marigold, Connie's older sister."

"Marigold," he said. "Nice. So, uh… sorry again…" He scratched his cheek self-consciously. He was a fucking dope, and this proved it. Marco would be laughing his ass off, stifling it into his hand and leaning against a wall. _Where's that game you keep claiming to have, Jean?_ Marco would say. He'd nudge him teasingly. "You're Connie's older sister?"

"Well I'm definitely not younger." Marigold rolled her eyes. "But, yeah. I'm glad he didn't introduce us. He likes to point me out to people and call me the person who made Sasha cry. Which, by the way, isn't true. As far as I know." She folded her arms across her chest, and glanced around. No one seemed to want to bother them. "You know what happened, right? Connie explained?"

"No. I, uh… have no clue what you're talking about, honestly."

Marigold didn't seem to care much. She had a very calm demeanor, unlike Connie, and she folded her arms across her chest. "Well, I guess he doesn't like to talk about it," she said. "It wasn't a great time for any of us. But, to put it bluntly, Connie got hit by a car."

"What?" Jean looked around him in alarm, wondering if he'd heard her right, because it was too weird to fathom. "Um, sorry?"

Marigold smiled wanly. "He was riding his bike to Sasha's house," she said, "and he was hit by a car. He lived, obviously, but his back was broken. We were told he'd be in a wheelchair for the rest of his life, but it was actually only about a year."

_Why is she telling me this?_ Jean didn't even know this girl, and she was spilling this to him, and it was really confusing. A broken back? _Connie_?

"Everyone here probably already knows this part of the story," Marigold continued. She must have seen his discomfort and shock. "So don't feel too special there. I'm just trying to keep you informed."

"Why was it only a year?" Jean asked slowly.

Marigold laughed. "Well," she said, "when we tell this story, we usually say an angel appeared to Connie and gave him his legs back." Her smile fell away as she turned and walked toward one of the poster boards. "But that's not really the truth. He swears that it wasn't an angel, that it was a girl named Ilse. She did something to him."

"And…" Jean looked at the pictures, bewildered. More of Connie's grandpa. "You're telling me this because…?"

Marigold glanced at him. "I don't have anyone else to tell," she said softly. "And you called me Ymir."

"What?"

She rolled her eyes once again, and she pointed to the poster board. They were just pictures. Connie's grandpa with a woman that was probably Connie's grandma. Connie's grandpa standing in front of a lake, holding a great fish in his arms. Connie's grandpa in a cemetery, kissing a crumbling gravestone. Connie's grandpa with an elderly woman who was probably his mother. This picture was grainy. And that woman again with a child. A dark skinned girl with freckles and glinting, clever eyes, and parted lips.

Jean felt his blood pumping through his veins, and he felt as though it had frozen suddenly. He stared at the photograph, and he touched it in disbelief. He'd spent the better part of the day staring at Ymir's face. There was no mistaking it, not even when she was this young.

"That's…" Jean's breath had left him. "That's not…"

"I was in charge of this board," Marigold said. She tore the photo from the arrangement, and Jean saw it was a snapshot. On the back, there was writing in an elegantly swirling script. She read aloud, "Thought you might want one last picture of Ilse before I burn them all. Sorry for any inconvenience. There won't be a funeral."

"Ilse?" a voice from behind Jean asked eagerly. He yelped, and whirled around to face Armin, who had likely been standing right behind him the entire fucking time. _Invisible bastard_, Jean thought glumly.

Marigold looked a little surprised, but she must have been prepared for the weirdness that would arrive in her home with Connie's team. Also, she lived with Connie. That was probably fucking weird enough as it was.

"Yes," Marigold said, nodding. "Ilse. That's what's been bothering me. That's why I'm actually… glad that you bumped into me, because I just can't wrap my head around it. Who wrote that?" She pointed to the picture. "Why did they write Ilse on it?"

"Well," Armin said gently, "who else would it be?"

Marigold looked confused. "My great aunt," she said slowly. "Ymir. Sorry. I should have made that distinction. But that's who that photo's supposed to be of. Right? That's what I always thought, but I never read the back before I put this together, and like… I'm a forensic science major. I've sent this thing in for handwriting analysis. But there're no matches in any of our county records, so I don't think they were from here. I haven't got a clue what any of this could mean, but…" Marigold's eyes flashed with a glint of something that made her look even more like Ymir. And it was the most disturbing thing Jean had seen all day. "You've got a girl named Ymir on your team. And you thought I was her."

"My head hurts," Jean declared.

"Join the club," Armin murmured. He straightened up, and he stepped closer to Marigold. They were surrounded by people. Jean could not believe they were having this conversation in front of this many people. "Does Connie know about this?"

"No," Marigold said with a little chuckle. "Connie finished like twelve of these in a minute and then went to Sasha's house. He has no clue about any of it except that we had a great aunt named Ymir who was our great grandmother's favorite story to tell. She died before our grandpa was born, so he never met her but… he told us the stories his mother told him about her." Marigold shrugged. "Connie never listened. Honestly, I barely did either, but I wish I did now. I think… I think there's a connection between her, and your Ymir, and this Ilse person."

"How is that possible?" Jean asked, closing his eyes. Time travel? Maybe? But Ymir wasn't…? That really didn't make any sense. None of this made sense.

"I've been thinking the exact same thing," Armin said. "And you're just confirming my suspicions, Marigold. But you shouldn't talk so loud about these things."

"I'm not worried," Marigold said with a wry smile. "I made sure that everyone around us can barely speak English before I pulled Jean over. I'm not stupid, and I know that you're looking for answers. Well, I am too." Her black eyes hardened fiercely as she looked between their faces. "I want to know what that bitch did to my little brother."

Jean looked down at the photograph again. The girl in the black and white photo was wearing a black dress that reached her knees. The collar was white lace. Her eyes were dark and clever. Her freckles were sprinkled by the hundreds across her dark skin. There was a locket around her neck.

_Oh my god_.

Jean's heard was thundering.

_Oh my fucking god_.

Armin touched Jean's arm. His gloves caught the sleeve of his jacket, and he gripped it. _Calm down_, Armin's voice was like a beacon of light shining through the grimy passages of Jean's brain. This was going to make sense. It was going to make sense because Armin was going to make sense of it. _Tell me what that means. The locket, I mean_.

_Ymir just threw that locket onto Marco's grave_, Jean thought, his fingers shaking against the corners of the vintage photograph. _She said it was a family heirloom_.

_She also said Ilse was her grandma_, Armin thought. Jean could hear him weighing his thoughts. They were heavy. He felt that. He felt it, and he could almost taste it. Armin had a weird effect on people. Jean shuddered. _This is the same Ilse. I'm sure of it. I've seen the pictures from the institute. It's possible that she is both our Ymir's grandmother who went by a different name, as well as Connie's great aunt_.

"Are you two speaking telepathically?" Marigold asked, quirking an eyebrow. "That's kinda rude."

"Habit," Armin admitted, his pallid cheeks flushing bright red.

_Okay_, Jean thought numbly. _Okay, that makes sense. It's weird, but it makes sense. But then… who gave Connie his super speed?_

Armin plucked the photo from Jean's fingers, and he waved it slowly at Marigold while examining it closely. "Do you mind if we take this?"

Marigold shook her head. "It's yours," she said. "I've got copies."

_I don't know_, Armin thought. _I honestly don't know, because when Connie told me that story, he said that Ilse had been a nurse. Ymir would have been way too young to pretend to be a nurse by that point, even if my next theory is correct_.

_What's your next theory?_

Armin stared at Marigold. And then his eyes dropped to the floor. "Shh," he murmured, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Shh…" He eyes moved from the floor, over his shoulder, and he frowned deeply. When he looked back at them, he looked even paler. And dazed. "I'm sorry, what was I saying?"

"Nothing," Marigold said, frowning at him. "At least not that I can hear."

_Your theory, Armin_, Jean said sharply, taking a mental jab at Armin's mind. It was almost easy, and he stifled a chuckle when the boy winced.

"Right," he exhaled, blinking so rapidly that Jean saw tears spring into his glazed blue eyes. "Right… um…" He squeezed his eyes shut, and gritted his teeth.

"Are you okay?" Marigold asked cautiously. "Um… Armin, right? The invisible one?"

"Armin," he mumbled, nodding. "Right. That's me." He grimaced, and his eyes moved around in a fluid set of motions. He looked disturbed, and sickened, and most of all, terrified. "That's me…"

_Armin, what the fuck is your theory?_ Jean snapped.

"Don't yell," Armin gasped, jerking backwards in shock. His shoulder bumped against an elderly man's back. "Why are you yelling?"

"I'm not," Jean said, feeling frustrated. "I didn't say a word."

"You're yelling in my head," Armin said. "You're yelling in my head, and you should stop. Stop yelling."

"I'm not!" He winced, and he took a deep breath. There were people watching with quizzical expressions. "Well, now I am, I guess, but not in your head, okay?"

"Should I get Connie?" Marigold looked a little uncomfortable now. Jean couldn't blame her. Armin was swaying in place, and his fingers were quaking against the photograph. Tears were glistening in his bloodshot eyes.

"No," Jean said, taking the photo from Armin and pocketing it. "Get Erwin. Do you know which one he is?"

"The big blond guy, right?" She nodded. "Augur. I did my homework before you showed up, y'know."

Armin's lips were trembling. "I don't understand," he breathed, his hands free to shake and fumble as they slid over his eyes. "I don't understand how… how this is possible…" He sounded breathless, and between his fingers Jean could see his eyes darting wildly.

"How what's possible?" Jean pushed him, grabbing Armin by the shoulders. He might have shaken him into answering if Erwin's gaze hadn't fallen on him from a few yards away.

Armin squeezed his eyes shut, and he pressed his lips together until they were a thin, bloodless white, and he shook his head and shook it and shook it and shook it, and refused to answer any of Jean's questions, or Erwin's, or Mikasa's, and he shook his head until he broke out of his daze to politely, in a panicked voice, ask where the bathroom was. Jean and Erwin helped him there, and Jean stepped back as Erwin rubbed the tiny boy's back as he fell to his hands and knees and vomited into the toilet.

* * *

_Once again I neglect important school work in favor of updating. WHOOPS. _

_I enjoy Jean and Ymir's friendship. Like, not that we really get one in the show, but I enjoy it purely in theory. They're a lot alike, for sure. (Though imo ymir is naturally a nicer person, but w/e)_

_Oh, Ymir, who are you? I used more Marigold bc Connie's siblings are fun OCs? They're necessary, but not super important? Mari's contribution to the plot is the reason she exists. _

_Ah. Poor Armin. Poor... poor Armin..._


	17. not of sound mind

_**non compos mentis**_

**Manhattan, New York**

_a.d. Idus Octobres, 2677 A.U.C_

Armin tossed and turned every night. He didn't get much sleep, and it was agonizing to lie in bed and know that he was doing nothing when there was so much to do, so much to understand. The stubborn taste of freezer burn lingered on his tongue as he watched Mikasa's chest rise and fall. And suddenly, he was waking up to her voice, and he wondered when he'd fallen asleep. He felt isolated by his own mind, and he wondered if she could tell. He felt like he was drowning in a frozen lake. His head felt the pressure and the bite of ice all around him. He was going numb.

Annie was to blame, of course. Annie was a thought inside his brain that he couldn't shake. Annie's touch, and Marco's face. It was all stinging him like frost, and it never melted away.

The morning of the funeral, Armin woke up to Mikasa sitting across from him. They shared a hotel room, and their beds were squished rather close together. Armin blinked groggily, and he rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he squinted through the darkness. The sun had yet to rise. The room was struck by a deep, heavy darkness. Armin sat up, and his mind snarled at him in protest, beckoning him to fall asleep just for a few moments longer. Stars danced across the edge of his vision, tapping at his retinas and laughing in awe of his weakness.

Armin could barely see Mikasa, but he tasted her worry, and he felt her rage. It was burning his throat like black coffee, sloshing on his tongue and peeling the skin off the roof of his mouth from the sheer heat of it.

"Mikasa?" Armin's voice was very thick. With sleep and confusion. He tasted coffee and freezer burn. "What's wrong? Did you have a nightmare?"

Mikasa scoffed. No. No, that wasn't it. Armin sighed, and he pushed back his blanket, shivering a little as he reached over his bed and clicked on the lamp on the nightstand. Mikasa's face was bathed with a warm yellow glow, and she looked even more worried than she tasted. Her brow was furrowed, and her eyes were beseeching. Her fingers were taut on her knees.

"Mikasa," Armin whispered, his eyes searching her face. "What is it?"

"You were muttering," Mikasa said, "in your sleep."

Armin didn't even remember falling asleep. "I was?" he asked, rubbing his forehead and frowning. His head hurt. "What did I say?"

"'My hands have disappeared'," Mikasa said softly. "Over and over again."

"Oh." Armin smiled weakly, and he yawned. "That's just a nursery rhyme, Mikasa. You know that."

"Yes," Mikasa said. "But then your hands actually disappeared."

Armin looked down at his hands quickly, raising them to his eyes and turning them toward the light. They looked perfectly solid to him, and perfectly visible. Even without he glasses he could see that. "Must've been a reflex," Armin said, dropping his hands into his lap.

She looked at him. She didn't believe him. He tasted her fear, and he realized it was for him. She was fearing for him and neither she nor he knew why. And he grew terrified, because if Mikasa was scared for him, he must really be in trouble.

The funeral had been just as stifling as Armin had expected. Bodies tightly packed in pews, his mind receiving all the grief and apathy and reverent prayer that sang like sweet, clanging bullets against the walls of his brain. This place tasted like wine and crumbling daisies. Incense crawled across his tongue and burnt his nostrils. His fingernails scratched at his knees anxiously, digging through his gloves. Between Christa and Mikasa, it wasn't so bad, because Mikasa's thoughts were calm and soothing— peppermint tea running down Armins throat, dulling the throbbing in his head from the voices beating their knuckles against his skull, and Christa had no thoughts to share. She was an empty blip in a room filled with sweet, vicious, screeching emotions, and he was so grateful for her presence.

Armin understood very little about his predicament, but he did know some things. For one, he would be a fool to think that there was nothing wrong with him. His headaches were getting worse. They were constant. They were deep, and they were merciless. He ignored them. He had bouts of vertigo. He was so dizzy it made him sick to his stomach. Thoughts and feelings crashed into him like ocean waves, and dragged him down and spat brine into his eyes and mouth and filled his lungs as he spluttered and gasped, and his ribs snapped from the pressure.

He stood up once along with the rest of the congregation. He'd never been to mass before. He didn't know what he was doing, and he wished he could focus more, because it was nice to observe religion in its natural form. He didn't feel like he could judge anyone around him, despite their feelings spitting and snapping at him with a vicious, eager bite. It should be enlightening. It should be surreal.

Armin stood up, and dizziness consumed him like that grand, monstrous wave rearing back and collapsing atop him. He nearly sunk to the floor from the sheer force of it. Bile stung his tongue, and his eyes filled with tears as the room spun madly, and Mikasa's shoulder fell against his forehead, and his knees shook as he gripped the pew in front of him, and inhaled deeply. He would not fall to his knees because of something so silly as vertigo. He would not let himself be weak here, not here, not with so many emotions piling on top of him. He needed to be strong.

But he couldn't. He knew he couldn't take it. It was too much for him to handle. So he pushed through the pew, and he escaped in a half-stumbling, half sprinting. His first thought was to leave the church. He couldn't take the conflicting feelings and thoughts churning through his receptive mind any longer. But in his weakened state, he'd collapse in the road, or something equally unfortunate. So he made a beeline for the restroom.

_Armin?_ Mikasa called, her voice the sweetest of comforts inside his head. Her mental touch was always a grace, but now Armin wished she could just enter his mind completely and chase all the other minds away. _Where are you?_

_Bathroom_, Armin replied. _I'm fine. It's fine. Don't worry_.

_How can I not worry when I can tell you're lying?_ she asked, her voice a soft, accusing murmur within the shuddering force of Armin's mind.

Sometimes it amazed Armin how completely Mikasa understood Armin's mind. He thought perhaps that she understood it better than he did himself. She was utterly at ease inside it, and she never faltered in letting him know her thoughts. And usually he gave her the same treatment. He wanted her to be able to help him through these things, these dizzy spells and headaches, but he was in a public place, and it embarrassed him to know that so many minds were clouding his judgment. He didn't _know_ what to do. It was so terrifying, it ached to breathe.

_Okay, fine_, Armin sighed. He rested his back against the door of the bathroom. It was pristinely kept, and there was a candle fluttering above the sink. _Worry. I don't feel well. But let me just… think it through by myself before you come and do something rash. I don't think what I need right now is someone else in my head. Not even you_.

Mikasa's mind was quiet as Armin slid to the floor, nausea churning up the bile in his stomach. He hadn't eaten that morning. He hadn't been hungry, he'd said, and this was why. Because he had the foresight now to not eat breakfast. He had the foresight to negate food altogether when he felt a bad day coming along. Mikasa and Erwin had noticed, of course, and reprimanded him, but it did nothing. It was a tactical error to eat when Armin knew he would feel sick afterward. And puking bile wasn't so bad. It never spoiled the taste of the food he'd recently consumed, and it didn't burn his throat and scratch his tongue with chunks and rancid aftertaste.

_Fine_, Mikasa told him. _I'll leave you alone, if that's what you want. But I won't do it for very long_.

Armin rubbed his eyes tiredly. His body was rejecting all sense of comfort, and his suit felt very tight as it chafed his arms and legs, and he breathed in the pungent fumes of incense, and it stung his nostrils and seared his lungs. It burnt a hole in his stomach, and he shuddered as bile clawed up his throat. He crawled to the toilet, and dry heaved while pulling at the knot of his tie. It was constricting around his throat, digging into his adam's apple and forcing him to gag. He coughed up bile, and spat it into the toilet, dizzy and sickened and mindful of his own weakness.

He'd thrown up every day since Saturday. He kept trying to convince himself that it meant nothing, even though he knew he was wrong. It was hard not knowing, but knowing would be even worse. Armin couldn't go to a doctor. What the hell was he supposed to say? "Hi, I'm Armin, and I've been able to read minds for about five years now, and it always gives me headaches, but now it's become so overwhelming that I get dizzy and throw up. Do you happen to know why?"

No. If Armin was going to find out why he was reacting so badly to his power, he would need to locate a specialist.

He hoped Eren and Levi successfully completed their mission to find and detain Dr. Jaeger. Because Armin truly needed him.

He had been sitting huddled on the floor, trembling with his knees tucked to his chest when Mikasa's mind reached out to his. Armin knew immediately that she was nearing the door. He could taste her peppermint warmth, and it made him shiver in relief. She was a good distraction from his worries. She was a good solace for his aching mind. She was a good warmth for his frozen heart.

The knock on the door was jostling, even though he knew it was coming. He sat with his back pressed to the pale wall, heat wafting slowly from the radiator beside him. Armin pulled off his gloves and wiped the corners of his mouth. _You can come in_, Armin thought to her, not trusting his voice_. It's unlocked_.

Mikasa entered the bathroom, and shut the door behind her. She wasted no time in striding across the tiny room and dropping to one knee before him. Her dark eyes flickered fiercely as she searched his face, and he closed his eyes as her icy hand slipped beneath his bangs to test the temperature of his forehead. Her fingers lingered there, and he felt them move slowly, gently tracing the remains of the brand that Ymir had absentmindedly bestowed upon his skin.

She cautiously parted his bang to peer at the healing burn. "What's this?" she asked, running her thumb across his forehead.

"Ymir checked if I had a fever a few days ago," Armin said wearily. "Her touch isn't exactly the gentlest."

"I can go punch her nose into her skull, if you want," Mikasa offered, taking both his hands in hers. The taste of her mind filled his with a great amount of warmth and comfort, and it almost melted the lingering frost that Annie's careless mind left behind. _No_, Armin reminded himself. _I was the careless one. Annie warned me not to get inside her head_.

"That's not necessary," Armin said. "She only did what you're doing now. The only difference is that she lost control of her power." He smiled at Mikasa grimly. "Which could easily happen to you, if I ripped open your mind and devoured all your secrets. If I did that right now, you'd crush the bones in my hands. Each of them. They'd saw through my skin and turn my fingers into bloody, pulpy stumps."

"Your imagination is inspiring," she told him with narrowed eyes.

Armin sighed. There was a sickening, fluttering feeling stirring in the pit of his stomach. Anxiety and fear. He blinked, because his bleary vision caught sight of something in the corner, a dark blot of a silhouette behind Mikasa's head. Armin stared, his heart thudding in his chest, and tastes from outside the door lapping at the doors to his mind. He felt uncertain and scared, because he understood very little about his current state. There was someone standing in the corner, but that was not possible. There was someone standing in the corner, and their silhouette glowed in defiance to all laws of reality.

Armin turned his eyes from Marco's to Mikasa's and then back. The boy was watching Armin with a gentle smile. Armin felt bile crawl at the back of his throat again, and his heart thundered against his ribs as Mikasa's cold hands squeezed his reassuringly. _Not possible_, he thought numbly. _Not possible. Not possible_. The worst thing about having a mind like Armin's was the constant state of knowing. He knew it was not possible that Marco was standing in the corner, watching with warm eyes and a warm smile, and warm skin that looked alive and healthy. Armin knew that his vision was playing tricks on him. His head was pounding in vicious time with his heart. Iamic pentameter. Tricks a broken, icy mind would play on its poor host's vision.

"You're shaking," Mikasa whispered. Her eyes were boring into his. Her brow furrowed. She had noticed his eyes glued to the corner, but she did not move. "What are you looking at, Armin?"

Tears prickled his eyes. "My contacts," he murmured. "They're hurting me."

"What's behind me, Armin?" Mikasa whispered. Marco blinked his bright brown eyes, and his laughed bounced off the windowless church bathroom, filling Armin's broken mind with shards of ice and melting chocolate. It all hurt. It all hurt so much. And none of it was real.

"My head hurts," Armin whispered. He was shaking so badly he could hear his teeth cracking. His eyes fluttered to her face as she turned her head toward the corner. "Mikasa, look. Look at me. My head hurts, look—"

"What were you looking at?" She stared at the corner. She stared straight at Marco, and she glanced back at Armin with a frown. "Armin, you can't rely on our link for this. You have to tell me what's wrong."

"I told you," he said shakily, "my head hurts. And I feel nauseous. And I'm dizzy, Mikasa, I'm so dizzy…"

"Are you cold?" She wedged herself between him and the radiator. Armin looked to the corner, and saw that Marco was gone. He'd never been there at all, of course. Armin would know if he was. His mind would have been easy to pick up, but Armin had only tasted residual traces of cookie dough from his own ice locked memories.

"Freezing," he admitted. He leaned into her as she wrapped an arm around his shoulder.

"It's getting worse," Mikasa murmured. Armin couldn't find it in him to reply, so he rested his head on her shoulder. He stared dizzily at the corner, and wondered with an icy brick falling into his stomach, if he'd hallucinated the entire thing. Perhaps he should have eaten that morning. "Are you going to tell Erwin?"

"He'll know when he sees me," Armin sighed. "I guess we should just be glad it's not worse than it is."

"How could it be worse?" Mikasa sounded disbelieving, and he laughed into her shoulder.

"I could lose control of my mind and my body and my power," he whispered. "All at once. Imagine how awful that'd be."

Mikasa didn't reply, so Armin listened to her breathe and he closed his eyes. He missed Eren. Eren would be able to make Armin feel better by sharing the burden, like he unintentionally did every time his mind was near. Combined, Eren and Mikasa were the ultimate saving grace. They numbed the pain without even realizing it.

They sat for a few minutes in silence. Armin listened to Mikasa breathe, and he watched the candle flutter in the corner. Marco had been a hallucination, true. But the effect that he had had on Armin was real. Mikasa had noticed how terrified Armin had been. She'd known exactly where to look for the dead boy. Armin wished someone would just knock him out forever so the pain would go away.

Not really, though. He liked being aware more than he liked sleeping. The trouble was, though, half the time nowadays he felt like he was in a constant state of dreaming.

"I talked to Levi this morning," Mikasa said.

Armin perked up. He blinked up at her face, which was expressionless as she watched the door. "Did you talk to Eren?" he asked eagerly.

She exhaled very sharply. "No," she said. "Levi was too lazy to go get him. The little bastard."

He laughed. It felt good to laugh, even though it made his chest ache. "Are they coming home soon?"

"He said that they should be home before us."

He couldn't help but be relieved. He missed Eren's presence. He missed Eren helping things make sense. In one weekend, Annie and Eren had gone away, and Armin was astonished to find how rattling that truly felt. To have Eren gone was understandably disconcerting, but Annie? Armin didn't know Annie very well. _But do I trust her? _Armin let Mikasa pull him to his feet. _Do I really?_

Armin was promptly informed that Levi and Eren were MIA. _Okay_, he thought numbly. _It's okay._ _They're probably not dead, or at least Eren isn't. Worst case scenario is that they got captured_. He couldn't find it in himself to feel anything over this news. He was already swallowing ice chips from the residual damage Annie had left on his brain. He was already seeing dead friends lurking in corners. He couldn't be any more broken, could he?

They were dragged to Connie's house, which wasn't bad, or anything, Armin didn't mind. But he really wanted to lie down and take a nap. Erwin did comment on his pallid complexion, and Armin responded that he felt sick, and that that was nothing new, and Erwin just frowned.

Armin listened as Ymir gabbed senselessly behind him in the van. Ymir was a source of great confusion for Armin. He knew there was something wrong with her past. He went down the list to be certain that he could comprehend it. One, Ymir had a memory of a burning house, and a corpse reaching toward her. Two, Bertholdt had been there when that had happened, because he'd taken over Ymir's body. Three, Ymir had a grandmother named Ilse who was the obsession of the Institute, and yet a woman named Ilse had given Connie his super speed.

It wasn't adding up.

_Gams_, Armin thought. _She called Bertholdt that. Isn't that an old slang word for legs?_

Four, her accent was irrationally old-fashioned.

She was picking on Bertholdt, Armin figured, because there was an old animosity there from whenever he'd skinned her. Armin was reminded of Levi's cold attitude toward him because of the forced mindlink forged at the mall. It was possible that Ymir had once lost control of her powers because of Bertholdt. It made sense that she would be bitter at him for that.

But Armin had to wonder how that experience had molded her.

He turned to face them both, Jean squished between them. He smiled tightly, his head pounding and his thoughts reeling. All of them squished together like this was making him dizzy, because not all of them were thinking clearly. Bertholdt was the most terrible mind to touch, because it was in shambles. Reiner was difficult to comprehend. Ymir's thoughts were always closely guarded, but Armin could taste them, like pepper hitting his taste buds and send his mind into a frenzy of bewilderment.

Armin turned his attention to Bertholdt, and avoided the buzzing frequency that fluttered around the tall boy. "Your power has such an extreme effect on you, Bertholdt," he said, looking directly into Bertholdt's eyes. He wanted the boy to know. "But how does your power affect other people?"

And he spluttered. Like anyone with guilt weighing on their minds, and Armin tasted that like sour sweat, and he knew without Bertholdt having to answer. Even in Bertholdt's scrambled mind, a thought sailed boldly in his terror. _He knows_. He'd certainly messed Ymir up enough that she was consistently bitter, and she made it her goal to make him uncomfortable. Armin could not say he thought it was right, because he was often on the receiving end of that kind of behavior, but he couldn't place blame to her either.

Armin kept this in mind as they came upon Connie's house. For a little while Armin just wandered around, feeling dizzy and irritable, and Mikasa hung close until Armin assured her that he was fine now. _Liar_, she spat into his mind. But she left him, because he had asked her to. He was surprised. He'd been lying without even realizing it, without even thinking. Of course he wasn't fine, but he said it with genuine conviction. _At least I know when I'm lying_, Annie had said, her voice bruising his mind, and singing in a breathy pitch.

He found himself humming idly, his gloved fingers massaging his temples. _Meine H__ände sind verschwunden, ich habe keine __H__ände mehr_… Armin grew tired of pushing minds away. Grief surrounded him in thickets and boughs, and he felt the frequencies flare up like a forest of thorns. He would not come out of this unscathed. He was rotting from the inside, his brain becoming raw from the exposure to so much grief, so much sorrow, each and every person giving off their own unsavory flavor. It was a rush to feel, but not a thrill. He was overwhelmed, of course, and it hurt to so much as breathe in, because there was a weight pressing to his ribs and threatening his poor, hollow, icy heart.

He decided to follow Jean around. He might have gone invisible without anyone noticing, or maybe he just had a natural ability to escape peoples' notice. Jean had given some thought earlier as to Armin's knowledge of Ymir. There was something impressive about that fact, and he thought it best to investigate before informing Jean. After all, they didn't know each other very well. _I trusted Annie_, Armin thought. _I trusted Annie and she betrayed us. I can't make that same mistake again. Not with any of them_.

"Did you really trust Annie, though?"

Armin was shocked to hear the voice that broke across the sea of mourning, a gentle hand parting the waves that lapped across the walls that barred Armin inside his own head. It might not have jolted Armin in such a way if the voice had not spoken so close to Armin's ear, so agonizingly close that Armin could _feel_ the breath tickle his skin.

Marco had startled Armin so badly that he felt himself flicker into visibility, his body molding into the sorrowful world around him before exploding back into a colored, blinding appearance. How foolish he was to become invisible in front of so many people. And yet, if anyone noticed, they didn't care. Armin was stunned at the trust that bound the minds around him. Perhaps everyone in this room knew exactly who he was.

And so Armin stood, his breathing becoming a struggle as he felt the undeniable presence of Marco Bodt standing millimeters from his shoulder. A presence, like a real live human being. It was unreal. It was so much worse than it had been in the bathroom, when it had been nothing but a smiling silhouette flickering with the uneven strokes of a candle's flame. This time Armin felt like he could actually be touched by this dead, smiling friend.

If Armin was to keep his head for the remainder of this day, he would need to forget that Marco was there.

_He isn't_, Armin reminded himself, swallowing thickly. He stared at the back of Jean's head as Marigold introduced a myriad of photographs to him. _Marco's not here, he can't be. He can't_.

"I can't?" Marco sounded so hurt, so dreadfully hurt, that it pained Armin to hear it. Pain and sorrow filled him. Sadness and grief consumed him. Waves of it. Tastes blew across his taste buds in sheets of rain water, bleeding sugar and tea and melting chocolate. Armin's mind rejected it. His mind was cold. His mind tasted like freezer burn.

_He's responding to my thoughts_, Armin reasoned. _Not here, he can't be_.

"But why not?" Marco's smile stretched, and his dimples caved, and Armin stole a glance at him. He averted his gaze just as quickly, his knees wobbling as he pushed himself closer to Jean. "Why am I not here, Armin?"

Armin forced himself to calm his nerves. He tuned into the frequency of both Jean and Marigold simultaneously. He tasted honey, because honey glazed Jean's sun-dried mind, and he tasted sugar cubes because they were stacked in perfect symmetrical pyramids across the landscape of Marigold Springer. And there he saw a new picture of Ilse Langer. Ilse was not unfamiliar to him, as he spent hours pouring over the pictures from the institute, trying to grasp what the hell this girl had meant. The burnt picture had been the most intriguing one. _Me and Ilse_, it had said. Who and Ilse? Who had taken those pictures, and who had been there for her?

"Ilse?" Armin offered, his voice a distant trail of grief droplets forming on his tongue. He realized that from his soft, shifting voice, one might mistake his desperate tone for eager, as he sensed Jean did. It didn't matter much.

"Yes," Marigold said, her mind a neat, compact stack of sugar cubes and steadily blooming flowers. "Ilse. That's what's been bothering me. That's why I'm actually… glad that you bumped into me, because I just can't wrap my head around it. Who wrote that?" She pointed to the picture. "Why did they write Ilse on it?"

Armin exhaled. Marco stood beside him, warm eyes blinking confusedly. "Well," Marco said, his voice tickling Armin's ear, "who else would it be?"

"Well," Armin said, his heart sinking in his chest, "who else would it be?"

Marigold explained something about her great aunt, Ymir, and Armin bit his tongue. There were tears in his eyes, tears of terror, because Marco was in his head. Or… Marco _was_ his head. Marco wasn't there, not really, but he responded to every thought Armin let slip through his walled mind, and Marco grasped it and spun it and forced Armin to feel the force of his own mind. His mind tasted like freezer burn. His mind felt like freshly powdered snow. And Marco spoke his thoughts, and Marco turned them around, and Marco had grown from something festering inside Armin's head.

Armin was forced to ignore this. He was beginning to understand the connection between Ilse Langner and Ymir. There was only one variable missing now. And Armin could probably tear it from her head if he so chose. _No_, Armin reminded himself. _I don't do stuff like that_. But of course he did, because he shattered minds and reduced people to empty shells, and forced people to relive their worst memories, and caused them to put guns in their mouths. Armin was not above ripping Ymir's secrets from her pretty little head.

But he really didn't want to.

"It's better that way," Marco said gently. Probably to sound reassuring, but his voice just made Armin feel sick. "Ymir's a lot more powerful than we give her credit for."

Armin was reminded that Ymir was not affected by his power. It didn't hurt her like it hurt him. He could steal what he wanted, but she just laughed it off. It was horrible, and it burnt his head and shriveled his lungs, but it did nothing to her.

In Jean's sun-dried mind, the boy recognized something in the photograph of Ilse. Armin listened, feeling unimpressed and a little frustrated. _Oh my god_, Jean thought, his thoughts blasting in the snowcapped corners of Armin's shivering mind. _Oh my fucking god_. Ice cracked everywhere he treaded.

Armin touched Jean's arm without thinking. He tried to be reassuring. Marco was nodding in approval. _Calm down_, Armin ordered, surprised at the strength of his own thoughts. He felt like he was crumbling, and being consumed by a great sea of emotions. But he wasn't. He was getting stronger. _Tell me what that means. The locket, I mean_.

"Why does it have to mean something?" Marco wondered aloud. "It's just a locket."

_Ymir just threw that locket onto Marco's grave_, Jean thought, breathless and shaky in the framework of his own mind and Armin's. _She said it was a family heirloom_.

_She also said Ilse was her grandma_, Armin thought firmly. He had to think about it for a little bit. So Ymir and Ilse looked almost exactly alike. Ymir claimed that Ilse was her grandmother, and that the locket that she possessed, or had possessed, had been an heirloom. Armin formulated two possible conclusions to the nature of these photographs. _This is the same Ilse. I'm sure of it. I've seen the pictures from the institute. It's possible that she is both our Ymir's grandmother who went by a different name, as well as Connie's great aunt_.

"Are you two speaking telepathically?" Marigold asked, her voice sugary and sharp. "That's kinda rude."

"Habit," Armin admitted.

"You really are very rude," Marco told him. Armin bit back a retort. _Not here_, he reminded himself. "_Very_ rude!"

_Okay_, Jean thought. _Okay, that makes sense. It's weird, but it makes sense. But then… who gave Connie his super speed?_

Armin took the photo from Jean and examined it. Ilse had a familiar face, all sharp, angular corners and clever glows. Her freckles were dark and erratic, bursting across her skin in a familiar pattern. Ilse had been born in the early twentieth century. _Gams_, Armin recalled. "Do you mind if we take this?"

"What you're thinking is crazy," Marco gasped by his side. "Amazing, but… but crazy. Are you crazy, Armin?"

Marigold shook her head. "It's yours," she said. "I've got copies."

_I don't know_, Armin thought to Jean. _I honestly don't know, because when Connie told me that story, he said that Ilse had been a nurse. Ymir would have been way too young to pretend to be a nurse by that point, even if my next theory is correct_.

"Are you crazy, Armin?"

Armin made the mistake of looking up at Marco. His entire body locked in terror, the sight of a half a brain peeking out from a shattered face, ice licking across the bridge of his warm colored nose, all freckled and still warm with life. Nausea swept over Armin, and it broke like a wave across his face. Cold, unforgiving waves of grief sweeping him off his feet.

_What's your next theory?_

_What's your next theory? _Marco asked, his voice screeching in a terrible, shrill echo across the throttling noise of Armin's mind. _Go on. Say it. Just say it_.

Armin felt tears burn his eyes. Looked down at his shoes, hopelessly trying to make sense of his own delusions. _Say it_, Marco laughed. _Are you scared? Are you scared that you're not as smart as you think you are?_ "Shh," Armin spat, gritting his teeth in frustration. No, this was not happening. He was not losing his mind. Not to a hallucination, and not now. _Just say it, Armin_. "Shh…" He glanced over his shoulder at Marco, but he was no longer there. He slumped a little in relief. He turned back to Marigold. "I'm sorry, what was I saying?"

"Nothing," the girl said, blinking with eyes that were alive enough that Armin could tell the difference now between reality and mindgames. "At least not that I can hear."

_Don't panic_, Armin told himself. Jean took a mental jab at him, which stunned him so badly that he flinched. Jean was much more comfortable using the mindlink than the others were. So comfortable that Armin felt a true link beginning to form, ribbons twisting between his mind and Jean's. He cut it sharply, feeling bitter at himself for being so weak in the face of his own strength.

"Right," he breathed. He tried to blink the tears away, but it wasn't working. And then he looked at Marigold, and he saw himself standing just behind her, grinning a half, icicle torn smile. His tongue poked through the hole in his skull, and it was shredded through with bits of ice, frozen blood glossing the chunks of meat on the surface. Snowflakes melted in his twisted, red flecked blond hair. "Right… um…" He had to close his eyes. _Not possible_, he reminded himself. _Not possible. Not here. Not possible_.

"My head hurts," the other Armin said, somehow, through a half torn mouth. His bare hand reached up, and scratched at the frozen bulk of a brain exposed through the cracked, shattered skull. Armin watched, sickened, as his long fingers grazed the jagged red bulks of brain tissue sticking out of his half grinning head. "It's cold, and it hurts. We should go get Ymir. She can warm it up."

"Are you okay?" Marigold asked, her voice distant and waterlogged. "Um… Armin, right? The invisible one?"

"Armin," he mumbled, nodding. "Right. That's me." He stared for a moment, utterly lost. "That's me…"

This wasn't right. There was something terribly wrong. What had his theory been, again? _Ymir_, Armin hissed into his own head, angry at his forgetfulness. _It's Ymir, you have to remember. Remember the way she speaks. Remember!_

He was so sick, and he was so exhausted, and he looked away from the image of himself, trying to make sense of that and trying to gain something from it. But it had just taken too much from him, too much thought and too much life, and Armin wobbled on his feet, bile trekking up his throat.

_Armin, what the fuck is your theory?_ Jean screamed into his head, and the world spun with fury in its winding, shifting movements.

"Armin!" the other boy with his face shouted. "Armin, Armin! There's something in our head, Armin! Shall we take it out?" His fingers scratched at the frozen bits of brain, and Armin shuddered.

"Don't yell." Armin reeled back, his mind raw and bleeding ice. "Why are you yelling?"

"I'm not," Jean said in a distant rumble. "I didn't say a word."

"You're yelling in my head," Armin said. The other Armin was laughing. "You're yelling in my head, and you should stop. Stop yelling."

"Armin!" cried the boy with his face. "What's your theory, Armin?"

_Ymir,_ Armin recalled. He watched bits of iced over brain matter crash to the floor. _She was cryogenically frozen_.

Armin's lips trembled miserably. "I don't understand," he breathed, clapping his hands over his eyes. "I don't understand how… how this is possible…"

He was losing his mind.

_He was losing his mind_.

He felt it pouring from his ears.

He watched it fall out of his cracked, icy skull.

Armin was in the bathroom suddenly, and suddenly he was puking up words.

Words glowed back at him. They carved shallow cuts in the inside of his throat, the roof of his mouth, dragging blood and ice across his tongue.

Ymir is Ilse.

_Ymir is Ilse_.

Armin stood sadly over Armin, and he crouched beside him. Armin stared, terrified, into the contents of the toilet. There were no words now. Just bile. He was in a bathroom. Erwin's smell burnt his nostrils, the familiar, achingly familiar scent of aftershave, and he felt the man's hand on his back, rubbing warm circles of comfort. There was a boy who looked like him crouching beside him.

"You know," Armin told himself, tucking a strand of hair behind his own ear. "You should consider this, Armin. We're not always right."

* * *

He was lying in a cell. The scent of piss hung heavily, hotly in the humid air, from the bucket beside his ratty blanket. Cuffs chafed his wrists and ankles, biting his soft skin until it peeled away to reveal nothing but blood and white bones. He'd been here for… hours… or days…? He didn't know. There was fog misting about his mind. He tried to remember the reason why he was lying in this dingy cell, with chains gnawing at his skinny limbs, but he couldn't. He inhaled the stale scent of his prison, and considered the possibility that he might just deserve this hell.

_The thing about prison_, he thought, _is that I can reevaluate my life and all my sins_.

"But I've done nothing wrong," he said aloud. His voice pitched against the darkened room, and it squeaked miserably. He stared at the blackened ceiling, and lifted his bound hands toward it. "I do not think I've done any evil, do you?"

The darkness was empty as it watched him. He frowned. His cellmate was not very talkative today. _Wait_, Armin thought. _Where am I? Who's in here with me?_

He was suddenly overwhelmed with terror. He twisted his body to get a better look at the silhouette sitting placidly on the other side of his cell, which was so small and cramped that he could feel the proximity of this person's face, a shadowy stare within arm's reach. The walls were made of timber, and he could almost smell the oak as it scratched against his side. There were no bars on their cell, and it occurred to Armin that he could escape. He sat up, his back cramping from disuse, and his lower abdomen aching terribly from the stiffness of his muscles.

"I believe," said his fellow prisoner, with a voice so soft that he almost could not hear her, "that it is our responsibility to take on whichever punishment is bestowed unto us, be it just or no."

Armin found himself snorting in disbelief. "I suppose you think I was wrong," he said loftily, "to do what I did."

"You were misguided," she said, her voice steady. "But I too am at fault. We've been careless, the both of us. This will end here. You must confess."

"I'll confess to nothing," Armin spat at her, shifting so his chains clinked together ominously. "Nor will you!"

"Hush," the faceless girl said. "I meant nothing by mentioning it. I only think it best for us. If you confess, you live."

"If we confess, there will be nothing left of us," Armin argued. "And all that aside, I'm no witch, nor are you."

"You sound so certain."

"I am."

She sighed, and as she did so Armin felt her thoughts stir uncertainly. How strange it was to be unable to hold onto thoughts. How refreshing. _These words aren't mine_, Armin thought numbly. _Am I dreaming?_ The cell looked like a dazed memory, but it felt equally vivid in its scents and feelings. Armin looked down at the cuffs binding his wrists, and he felt the blood and dirt caking his skin. _What am I doing here?_ He just didn't get it. This was a prison, but he'd done nothing wrong.

Right?

Armin flinched as a door opened, pouring a blinding amount of silvery light into the cellblocks. He blinked rapidly to try and adjust his dark-adjusted eyes to the painful brightness of daytime. He was shocked to find himself being dragged to his feet, his shackles bumping ceaselessly against each other, metallic clangs that echoed the frantic beating of his heart.

He stole a glance back at his cellmate, and he saw a skinny blonde haired girl watching him with a hollow gaze. His stomach lurched as he watched her lay her gaunt cheek against the straw strewn dirt floor, and her chapped lips parted as she closed her eyes. If Armin listened very hard, he could hear the vague _beep-beep-beep_ of her steady heartbeat on a bright monitor screen in some dizzy, distant dream.

Armin was dragged out into the sunlight, left to puzzle over the image of the blonde girl in the cell. _Christa_, he thought. _What the hell?_ He gasped in alarm as a rock was hurled from somewhere in the faceless crowd around him, and it whizzed past his cheek. There was so much shouting, and he couldn't make since of any of it. They were all spitting words at him like he was something vile.

"What's going on?" Armin asked weakly as his iron cuffs were yanked by the man guarding him. Armin saw his face, long and solemn, and he felt desperate. "Jean?"

The boy looked at Armin with widening eyes, as though he could not believe that he had been recognized, and he turned his face away. "Just keep walking," Jean mumbled. "Witch."

"Witch?" Armin's weak legs stumbled on the rocky terrain. The jailhouse opened up onto a great hill. Grassy, with trees arching high into the sky, and vegetation swirling into existence with every shaky, pained step that Armin's shackled feet took. His mouth was dry, and his lips were cracked, but still he spoke, and his voice broke across the jeers and the sneers of the crowd behind him. They quieted at the sound of his voice, and he felt their terror. "Is that what you think of me?"

Jean didn't respond. He couldn't even look Armin in the eye. Armin felt tears prickle in his eyes. It wasn't fair. He'd done nothing wrong, and Jean wouldn't even look at him. What was this? Why was this happening? _I want to go home_, Armin thought desperately as Jean pulled him by his shackled up the hill. Armin passed a tree, his bare feet snagging on a twisted root, and he stared at the two nooses swinging idly in the breeze.

"Are you going to hang me?" Armin whispered, horrified.

"You can still confess," Jean said quietly. "It doesn't have to be like this."

"Of course it does!"

Armin turned his eyes to a congregation of familiar faces. They were standing atop the hill, looking down at him with cold, unfeeling gazes. Armin was dragged before them and forced to his skinny, wobbly knees. Eren had been the one who had spoken. Eren, with a chilly gaze, and emotions drained from his face. Armin couldn't breathe. This couldn't be happening. _Wake up_, Armin thought to himself. _Oh god, wake me up_…

"But I haven't done anything wrong," Armin gasped.

"Liar," sang Mikasa, her black eyes following Armin's face accusingly. "All you do is lie."

"That's not true," Armin blurted.

"It's who you are," Connie said darkly. "You can't change your nature."

"Please," Armin gasped, tears burning in his eyes as he searched their empty faces. At the foot of the hill, there was a lake. Sunlight bounced off its black, glassy surface, and trees curled in the dark reflection. If Armin looked, he might be able to see his own face tearfully begging for his life. "It's not true. Whatever it is you think of me, it isn't true."

"He's groveling," Mikasa observed.

"Quit that, witch," Eren barked.

"I'm…" Armin's lips trembled. "I'm not—!"

"Why are we letting him speak so freely?" Sasha asked suddenly. "We should gag him!"

They erupted in cheers of agreement. All of them. Eren, and Mikasa, and Jean, and Connie, and Sasha, and Bertholdt, and Reiner, and Hange, and Levi. They all cheered to silence Armin, to prevent him from defending himself. He was on his knees, his wrists and ankles bound, and he stared at them, his friends who wanted him dead, and he choked back a sob. They drew closer to him, and Armin stared in horror, his body slumping in defeat. There was no reasoning with a mob. Especially not a mob of close friends.

"Stop." Erwin's voice broke Armin. Not his thoughts, nor the air. Armin himself broke at the sound of the man's voice. Tears drifted down his cheeks as the man stepped before him, towering over his skinny frame. His silhouette blotted out the sun. "Let the boy speak."

Armin smiled bitterly amidst his tears. He glared at his shackles, at the iron biting into his bones. This was the cruelest of punishments, to be brought in front of a crowd of friends who despised him, to be judged by the man who had raise him. Armin wouldn't mind one of those nooses around his neck, not after this pain.

"You'd give me that privilege, sir?" Armin asked numbly.

"None of your witchery can touch us here, boy," Erwin said.

"Are we on hallowed ground?" Armin closed his eyes. "Well, it matters not, because I am no witch."

Erwin didn't smile, and Armin didn't expect him to. He knelt in the grass of the sad hill, and he wondered how that noose would feel around his neck. Better than this humiliation, than this betrayal. He was certain that nothing could hurt him now that his entire life was against him. He couldn't bear to look at Mikasa and Eren. Vaguely he wondered what they were thinking.

"You cannot expect us to believe that to be true," Erwin said, watching Armin with his keen blue eyes.

"Believe what you'd like," Armin said. "But I know who I am."

"That may be entirely within possibility," Erwin said, "but do you know _what_ you are?"

"Human!" Armin lurched to his feet, and the congregation of friends all inhaled at once, a great sucking gasp of terror. They were afraid of him? Why? What had he done? He recalled Christa's words, that he had been misguided once, but Armin didn't understand. He'd done some terrible things, yes, but nothing to warrant this mob mentality.

"I do not doubt it," Erwin sighed. "But it may be just as well that you are the Devil's possession, boy."

"The devil?" Armin almost scoffed. "I'm not anyone's possession, sir, and most certainly not any devil's."

"The Devil has hold of you, child," Erwin told him. "You must repent."

_This is ridiculous_, Armin thought, staring from blank face to blank face. None of them seemed real. None of them seemed to truly look at Armin, and it was terrifying.

"Repent?" Armin asked vacantly. "And what then? What will become of me after the great lot of you determine whether or not I've repented enough?"

"You will tell us who else conspired with the Devil," Erwin said, his voice grave. "You will help us investigate."

"You expect me to confess," Armin said uncertainly, "to an imaginary crime, and then pin the blame to some other poor soul? I think not."

They were all quiet. Armin thought that it was strange, how eerily quiet and empty faced they were, no emotion toiling inside them, no thoughts to strain inside their minds. Armin tasted nothing. There was nothing for him to consume, nothing for him to connect. These people were not real. These people were just as imaginary as… as…

Erwin stepped aside, and a girl stepped up in his place. Tiny and blonde, with eyes of ice and a frown that made her almost unpleasant to look at. Annie looked up at him, and she jerked her chin. "Confess," she demanded.

"I've nothing to confess," Armin responded.

"Tell them you are a witch," Annie whispered. "They'll spare you."

Armin found himself smiling. "You assume," Armin said, "that I wish to be spared."

She searched his face. And she smiled too. _Oh_, Armin thought very numbly, _oh, it really is a dream_. "If you won't confess," she said, "won't you prove your innocence?"

Armin was struck mute in shock. He'd been preparing to die all along, but he never thought he'd be given the chance to prove that he wasn't guilty. He stood, wobbling and swaying back and forth, and he heard Erwin whisper, "Prepare the sister for the gallows."

He searched Annie's face, and she smiled wider, and her eyes lit up. "You said you trusted me, Armin," she whispered. "Trust me now." She offered out her pale hand, and Armin saw it bare to him, white fingers soft and fleshy in the warm sunlight. He had no choice but to take it. His bare fingers held hers uncertainly, for his were dingy and bony, and hers were soft and strong, and she dragged him down the hill. His ankles and wrists were still bound, and his shackles clinked. Behind them, Marco Bodt trailed, whistling a familiar tune.

"_Meine H__ände sind verschwunden_," Marco sang boldly, waving his hands about.

Armin squeezed Annie's hand, but found he was squeezing air. He stared ahead of him for a moment, and then looked at her. She'd brought him to the lake at the foot of the hill. The congregation had disappeared. They were all that was left. Them, and the two nooses swinging jauntily from a nearby branch.

"Here I am," Armin said. "Trusting you."

"You really shouldn't," Annie said quietly. "I'm really not very trustworthy."

Armin whirled to face her. The black water was still in the heavy air, and reeds poked out from the rocky bank. Mud swallowed Armin's bare feet as he took a step toward the girl. _This means something_, Armin thought. _Dreams are just another part of my mind. And my mind is telling me something here. Pay attention_. Annie looked at him, and her expression was not like the empty faces of the friends who had accused Armin of lying and witchcraft. She looked sad, her eyes watching his face solemnly.

"You make no sense," Armin said, breaking out of his perfunctory stupor. He'd been speaking as the dream had commanded, but now he saw it to be a dream, and now he felt the world around him to b a fabrication of his own sick delusions. "You want me to trust you, and then you say shit like that. I'm sick of it."

Annie grinned. "You never trusted me at all," she said brightly, pale hair falling into one glistening eye. "You only pretended!"

"I wasn't pretending," Armin said uncertainly.

"And there you go," Annie sighed loftily, "lying again! You really should open up, Armin. Secrets are dangerous. Take it from someone who knows."

Armin listened to her, his mind sinking slowly back into the sweet, blissfully foggy trance of the dream around him. He dragged himself out of it, and grabbed her hands furiously. They felt so real— soft and warm against his bare skin, and it was so strange, because Armin knew Annie's touch, and it was the exact opposite of this vivid reverie. Annie looked surprised, and her teasing expression faded. She was pretending too, this dream girl. She was pretending to smile and tease, because she wanted it to affect him, but it didn't. It only made him want to break out of this mindless prison even more.

"You killed Marco," Armin said. He was reminding her, and he was reminding himself. Marco stood beside them, and laughed. Annie smiled too. "Was it because he knew a secret, Annie?"

"Does it matter?" Annie asked, blinking up at Armin tiredly. "This isn't about him. It's about you. You liar."

"You're the liar," Armin snapped, squeezing her tiny hands. "You made me trust you, and then you killed our friend!"

"He was never my friend," Annie said miserably. "And neither were you."

Armin didn't know why that stung so badly. Maybe because he wasn't sure if that was true or not. He had been distrustful of Annie for long enough that he'd been wary to befriend her. _At least I know when I'm lying_, Annie had said once. It was truly terrible to be lost in his own mind, in his own lies. Had he been telling it true when he had called Annie his friend? Or had he just been trying to gain her trust so she would tell him what the hell she was guarding so tightly?

He felt his molars grind together in frustration. No. He didn't care. He didn't care how genuine he had been, Annie _was_ his friend. No matter what she did, and no matter what he thought, he would accept that to be a truth. He exhaled sharply, and raised his head high.

"I'm not lying!" Armin's voice broke like a thunderclap. Rain guttered into existence above his head, soaking his rags so they plastered themselves to his skinny frame like a ratty second skin. Marco took Armin by the arm, and Annie tore her hands from his. "You really are my friend, and I really did trust you. You're the one who's been lying."

"I suppose," Marco said sadly, "that's what any witch would say."

"I'm not a witch," Armin stated furiously. Rain pattered around him, causing the lake to overflow and lap over his calves. He inhaled, and water filled his mouth. "And I'm not lying."

"Prove it," Annie whispered. She smiled, and looked to the splashing, churning black lake. Rain left hollow pits in its chaotic surface. Armin realized what she wanted. "Your lies will weigh you down."

"And my supposed witchcraft will let me float," he hissed. "I can't win with you."

"Don't you trust me?"

Armin was blinded by rain now, and it was nothing but a vacant voice flooding into his head. There was no discerning who spoke, and there was no fighting it. _I have to wake up_, he thought as Annie took his other arm, and both dead boy and murderess dragged Armin with all his shackles and all his bony limbs, and pulled him into the shallows of the gushing lake. Tears stung his eyes.

"I trust you," Armin said numbly. _I have to wake up_. "But I don't want to die."

"You won't," Marco murmured into his ear. "We won't let that happen."

"Just trust me," Annie laughed, her face a blur of rainwater and ice clinging to her drooping eyes. He felt her soft skin on his lips, and at first he thought it was her hand, but then he realized it was her mouth, and he was suddenly dizzy with panic and horror, and he twisted his neck so hard it gave a shudder of protest, and her lips dragged icicles across his flushed, wet cheek. _I have to wake up_, he thought, close to sobbing.

"It's c-cold," he stammered, waist deep in the overflowing lake. Rain licked his tear-streaked face, and ice stung his eyes. "Do I have to do this?"

"You have to prove your innocence," Marco said.

"I've done no-nothing wrong…" Armin's lips were numb, and he could not feel his feet or fingers any longer. His arms felt heavy. "Please don't make me do this…"

"I thought we were your friends," Annie said, one of her tiny hands gripping his shoulder. Marco held the other.

"Friends don't drown each other," he gasped, rain filling his mouth and ears. _I have to wake up, I have to_—

"Friends don't lie," Marco said darkly. Armin choked on a sob, and Marco hushed him, and Annie brushed his tears away, and they both laughed as they put pressure on his shoulders, and he was forced onto his back and into the frigid, rain swollen lake. Water filled is eyes and sunk into his nostrils and sloshed in his mouth. He couldn't fight them. He saw their faces above him, distorted by the shifting water and rain splattering in a rush of bullets, rings darting across Armin's vision. He couldn't tell which one was which. They held his shoulders, pinning them to the hard porcelain floor of the lake, and he convulsed as he felt the water rush into his lungs, and he tried to lash out at them but his ankles and wrists were bound, and he was too weak to fight. He opened his mouth and screamed, but all that came out was a muffled choking sound, water crashing into the back of his throat and swelling up inside his lungs and inside his stomach and inside his eyes, and he stopped screaming when he realized he was wasting his precious last breaths, and that he was a fool.

Two silhouettes became one. The rain had stopped abruptly, and the pressure had lifted from his shoulders somewhat, but his lungs were about to burst from the water inside them. Armin wanted to wake up from his terrible dream so badly, he was willing to let darkness take over his vision. Just a little more water, and then he'd wake up…

He was dragged back to the surface, and out of reflex he gulped a breath and choked on the mixture of water and air that clogged his throat. The world was spinning, and his head was throbbing, and everything in him ached. His body was cramped inside a small space, and water lapped at his neck as he coughed and writhed and squinted through the blinding white light that had burst across his line of vision. Callused hands were grasping him, and he felt a shudder of panic and worry zip through a permanent link, and through the ice and water that danced inside his mouth, he tasted peppermint.

"Armin," Mikasa was saying, over and over and over and over, and he coughed into her shoulder as she scooped him up into her arms, water pouring from his bony body, causing his pajamas to stick uncomfortably to his chest and legs. He coughed and coughed and spasmed, blinking blindly into the light of the bathroom.

"W-w-w-where—?" Armin choked, the scent of her hair filling his burning nostrils as she hugged him very close, rubbing his dripping, ruddy arms, and he shivered in shock and disgust and cold— he was so _cold_. "W-where am… where… oh my god." Armin was stunned and shuddering, coughing up water onto the bathroom floor. His vision began to adjust, and the tile stung his flesh as Mikasa distributed him carefully against the tub, smoothing his damp hair away from his face. He was home, he realized, his eyes darting around the bathroom. He was somehow home. "H-ho-how did I-I-I ge-get here…? Oh my go-god, oh—" Armin leaned his pounding head back against the slippery porcelain, and he coughed, a sob blooming in his chest. "Mikasa, wh-what happened? What _happened_?"

"I…" Mikasa's face hovered in front of him, and it was almost hazy, fuzzy around the corners, and Armin's heart stuttered at the thought that this could be a dream. "You… Armin, do you know what you were doing just now?"

"I don't…" He coughed miserably, water dribbling down his chin and tears filling his eyes, blurring her face even further. "I don't even kn-kno-know how I _got_ here!" He inhaled a gulp of air, and it tasted cold and stale, and he choked on a cough and a gasp, clutching at his chest. His skin chafed painfully, and his wrists twisted together. He looked down, and he saw that his wrists were bound with a tightly wound washcloth. So were his ankles. He stared in horror, his mind recognizing this. In his dream, he'd been wearing iron shackles.

"Shh," Mikasa whispered, pressing her hand to his heaving chest. "Don't panic. I don't want to leave you to try and find your inhaler. Just breathe. In through your nose, and out through your mouth."

Armin did what she told him to, and he felt a little better, but he was still coughing and shivering and bound. As he sat, his pajamas clinging to his pale skin, sticking to his bones, he recalled that he had been at Connie's. How did he get all the way across the country in such a short period of time?

"We've all be home for a few hours," Mikasa said. She must have heard the thought sail through his brain, and he exhaled, water slipping through his lips. He was quaking against the ocean he had spilt onto the chilly white tile. "You were out for most of the trip, but… you woke up and went to your room almost immediately, because you said your head hurt. Do you… do you not remember that?"

"No," Armin mumbled, staring miserably down at his bound wrists. "I don't even remember blacking out."

Mikasa nodded, and she stood up. Armin noticed she was in her pajamas as well, her tight sports bra and baggy sweatpants, and he coughed, and coughed, and groaned. His head was splitting apart, little fragments sailing into his brain. It was disgusting. He tried to slip his wrists out of the cloth bindings, but he found they were tied too tightly. He didn't know how that was possible. Who had tied him up?

He bit at the knot, gnawing at it and feeling like a rabid animal caught in a trap, but he couldn't care. He was too terrified and confused to give a shit anymore. He yanked, and attempted to dredge up all the knowledge Erwin had bestowed upon Armin about knot work. This was a slipknot, but a secure one. Armin could undo it. He just needed the right leverage.

He paused, his teeth still scratching against the knot as he watched Mikasa walk to the center of the room. He dropped his bound wrists into his lap in shock. She stood between two expertly made nooses, examining both carefully for a moment, or two, or seven, and Armin coughed. _Oh_, Armin thought in awe. _Oh. I was awake that entire time. I was awake, and hallucinating_.

This was getting out of hand.

The hallucinations hadn't come out of nowhere, but Armin was sure that they were coming too fast. The pace of them was unlike anything he could handle. He just kept having them. One after the other, each worse than the previous. And they were becoming dangerous too. That was clear by the nooses. And the drowning. _How could I have done this to myself?_ Armin wondered, peering down at the knots binding his wrists and ankles.

Mikasa yanked down a noose, which was attached rather poorly to the light fixture, and he watched her unravel it. It was a towel. He shuddered, and coughed, and he let her wrap his supposed execution tool around his shoulders very carefully, mopping up the water from his judgment.

"You passed out in the bathroom at Connie's house," Mikasa told him. "We immediately decided it was probably best to go home, so we dropped Jean off and… well, here we are. Hange left when we got back, because Levi and Eren missed their next check in." She ran the downy towel across Armin's trembling lips, and when he glanced into the large wall mirror beside him, he saw that his reflection was not really anyone he recognized. He was an emaciated skeleton of a boy, with hollow eyes and blue lips and splotchy skin. His hair was plastered to his pallid forehead, and his bloodless cheeks, and he shuddered.

"There's something wrong with me," Armin whispered into Mikasa's damp shoulder. Her skin was warm, painfully warm, and he shivered in shock. She tussled his hair with the towel, and she shook her head.

"There's nothing wrong with you," she tried to reassure him. He didn't have the strength to glare at her, so instead he stared at his bound wrists.

"I'm losing my mind," he said aloud for the first time. It tasted sour. _At least I know when I'm lying_.

"No," she sad sharply, dropping the towel and grabbing his wrists. Her touch was almost a little too harsh, but she amended it by yanking the slipknot out of place. Relief lanced through him as blood rushed back into his hands, and he rubbed the inflamed skin with trembling fingers. "You're not. You were sleepwalking, Armin. That's all."

Armin wanted to tell her about the dream he had, the witch trials and the drowning and Marco's laughter filling Armin's mouth like burnt cookie dough and Annie's lips freezing on his, but he couldn't. He didn't know if she could hear these thoughts, but by the way she continued to work at untying him, he assumed she didn't.

"But what if I am?" he wondered, flexing his feet as they were unbound. The damp washcloths were tossed into a sloppy pile near the mirror. "I can't be around any of you if I'm crazy. I'd… I might hurt you." He shook his head furiously. "You'd have to lock me up somewhere with no… no human contact."

"It would never come to that," she said firmly, taking his face in her callused hands. He stared into her hazy face, and he wished he could believe her. "Trust me."

He almost jerked away from her at those words, but he reined himself. This was Mikasa, and he trusted her fully. _I had a dream_, Armin thought to her, staring desperately into her eyes, _that all my friends thought I was a witch, and you called me a liar, and thought I should be gagged_. It sounded almost stupid now that he thought about it. But Mikasa didn't smile. Her eyes darkened, and her fingers slipped from his face. He could hear the sound of rushing in the halls, and he tasted the familiar, but unexplored territories of Reiner and Bertholdt's minds.

"It was just a nightmare," she told him gently. So gently, in fact, that Armin actually found himself feeling a little better.

"I almost drowned," Armin said as Bertholdt and Reiner burst into the room. The door had been open, so it was likely they had just heard the choking. Or, maybe, the screaming, if that had been real. _Some of that dream wasn't just a dream, Mikasa_.

He saw her lips tug downward into a frown, and she stood up. She whirled around, and jerked her chin at Bertholdt and Reiner. "Can you two watch him while I get him clothes and his inhaler?"

"What happened?" Reiner gasped, pushing into the room and dodging the noose. He blinked at it confusedly, and then dropped down beside Armin. "You okay, little dude?"

Armin had to suppress a smile. "I think so," he murmured, bundling the towel around him. "I don't really know what happened."

"This is a good knot," Bertholdt said suddenly, reaching up to examine the extra noose. "Pretty expertly made— did you…?"

"I don't…" He had to have done it. Who else could have? Armin sighed, and he shrugged. "I guess. I don't remember it, though."

Bertholdt nodded vacantly. Reiner lowered his gaze, and Armin could sense that they were both hiding something. He coughed, and sat up a little straighter. Mikasa had left the room, and he was left to shiver on the floor. This sucked so badly, and Armin wasn't really sure what to do about it. He turned his face to Reiner, and searched it desperately.

"Can you go get Erwin?" he croaked, feeling a little ashamed and childish. But he couldn't help it. He really needed to talk to Erwin right now, and the man ought to know what had happened.

Reiner nodded eagerly, and jumped to his feet. "Sure thing," he said, patting Armin's wet hair. "Just stay here, okay? Don't, uh…" Reiner glanced at the noose. "Yeah. Stay here. Bertl, keep an eye on him."

"Yeah," Bertholdt said. "Sure."

Reiner left very quickly, and Armin curled further into the downy fabric shrouding him. He pressed his lips to the towel, looking up at Bertholdt curiously. The boy was avoiding his gaze. Armin sighed, and shifted in discomfort, his wet clothes chafing against his skin. This was getting so out of hand. Armin would need to talk to someone about this, a psychiatrist or a doctor of some sort. The only trouble— the only thing really stopping him from running blindly into the night until he got to the nearest hospital— was the fact that no one could know about his powers. And doctors were so touchy…

"Doctors aren't the only one."

Armin stiffened. The sound of his own voice was enough to send a wave of nausea sweeping over him. _Not again_, he thought. _I won't fall for this again_. He glared at the inflamed rings around his wrists from where the washcloth had bit into his skin. He bit the inside of his cheek, and wondered what it would be like to be completely isolated from humanity. He would hate it. He would loathe it, because he would not be able to live in such a desolate state.

"Are you thinking of locking yourself away," his reflection asked from beside him, "for our benefit? Or for theirs?"

If Armin twisted his head to the side for just a moment, he'd be able to glimpse his bright-eyed reflection, curiously pressing itself against the glass dividing them. It was not something Armin wanted to see, but he stole a glance anyway, and his reflection grinned, and raised his chin. There was a ring of inflamed skin around his neck.

"Whoohoo," his reflection sang, pressing his pale hands to the glass. "I know you hear me. Answer me, Armin."

He would have to be heavily sedated, wherever they put him. He'd probably have to live on morphine and applesauce for the rest of his life. He didn't know if he'd be able to handle that. Maybe if he just went away, lived as a hermit, and let the hallucinations play their course. Then maybe it'd be okay, and Armin could still live some semblance of a life.

"It won't help anyone," his reflection sighed. "Especially not us."

"Shut up," Armin murmured, pulling his knees to his chest. He needed to think clearly, but all this reflection— this hallucination— was giving him was grief. Bertholdt was watching him with his dark eyes drooping. There was recognition there. Armin could see it. _Here's my chance to ask him about Ymir_, Armin thought eagerly.

"Oh," the reflection said loftily, "yes. Ask him about Ymir. Ask him about where she is now. Ask him about the nooses."

"I said shut up," Armin mumbled, rubbing his temples irritably. Right. Ymir. Bertholdt. Fire. Possession. Right? God, this was so messed up. He needed to update his video diaries in order to get a grasp on what he was actually theorizing. Right now it was all too muddled, and he'd almost killed himself. He needed to let that sink in. _I actually almost killed myself_, Armin thought_, by drowning, and by a noose_.

"Two nooses," his reflection reminded.

"Oh my god," Armin gasped, twisting to glare at the mirror. His own face smiled placidly back.

"It's weird," his reflection said, cocking his head. Damp blond hair curled across his eyes. "Don't you think? I think so. And I'm you. Two nooses. One us. Well, technically."

"Stop it," Armin hissed.

"Two nooses," Armin sang through the mirror. "Two witches!"

"Shut up!" Armin clamped his hands over his ears, and he squeezed his eyes shut, but he couldn't block out the sound of his own voice.

"Why are there two?" he asked himself. "Who else was going to hang? Why are there two?"

"I said," Armin spat, lurching to his feet and grabbing the first thing he could find from the countertop— a bottle of unopened shampoo— and he hurled it at the mirror, "shut _**up**_!"

The mirror cracked. An actual crack spider-webbed across the face of the mirror, appearing violently and urgently, a dent in the flawless design. His reflection sat on the floor, staring up at him with his shattered expression utterly unimpressed. He rested his arms against his propped up knees, and twisted ever so slightly to meet Armin's furious gaze. The other boy looked positively bored with Armin's display of violence.

"That was rude," the other Armin said. "I'm only trying to help."

Armin's heart was beating very hard in his chest, and he exhaled sharply. He needed to get himself together. This was getting out of hand. And Armin was more rational than this. _There's something wrong here_, he thought, glaring at his reflection. _But I'm missing a variable. I'm missing_ something. So he whirled around, and pushed the thought of his reflection out of his mind, his eyes darting to the single noose still hanging from the light fixture.

"Two nooses," Armin said breathlessly. He swallowed very hard, and pushed his damp, twisting hair from his forehead. "Why are there two nooses?"

"I…" Bertholdt's gaze couldn't hold Armin's, and he turned his face away. "I don't know… you did it, not me."

Armin stood, feeling a little jostled by these revelations about his state of mind. He couldn't let it hurt him now, not when he was so close to the truth. "Do you think I'm crazy?" Armin asked softly.

Bertholdt gave a sharp, bitter laugh. His dark eyes rose finally, meeting Armin's in a tired sort of defeat. "Of course not," he said. "How could I?"

Armin chose to ignore the snickering of his own reflection. And he remembered, with a sudden bout of guilt, that Bertholdt was schizophrenic. He looked down at his bare toes, wriggling against the wet tile, and he sighed. "Does… does it ever get like this for you?" he asked, wondering if he sounded insensitive. "Screaming, and not knowing why, or how you got to where you are?"

"No," Bertholdt said, shuffling his feet a little. "Um… my problems are more… anxious, than anything, really… I, um…" He pressed his lips together, and shot a look at the door. "Well, it's like… like having someone breathing down your neck every moment of every day, and the voice just… lingers, saying the same words over and over. Sometimes the words will change, especially if I… I just skin someone, but usually it's repetitive, which makes it easier to ignore." Bertholdt blinked rapidly, and straightened suddenly, looking alarmed. Perhaps he was surprised at himself.

"What do they tell you?" Armin asked.

Bertholdt squeezed his eyes shut, and he exhaled shakily. "I don't want to talk about it," he said hurriedly, folding his arms around his stomach. "Wha… what about you?"

The reflection had gone quiet, and when Armin glanced at it, he saw that it was no longer sitting in boredom, but rather showing the nervous expression that was truly there. "It asked me," Armin said, "why there were two nooses." Bertholdt said nothing. He looked up that the rope dangling from the ceiling, and frowned. So Armin turned to face him once again. "It also asked me to ask you about Ymir."

"Ymir?" Bertholdt looked surprised, and he stammered. "W-why?"

Armin stared at the noose. "Two nooses," he murmured, "two witches."

Two nooses. Two witches. Two prisoners.

Armin stared and stared at the noose until the shape of it was caught inside his eyes and imprinted there when he looked into the blackened hall. "Two nooses," he blurted, lurching toward the door in a panicked revelation. Bertholdt cried out, and caught Armin around the waist before he could make it out the door. "Let— Bertholdt, please, let go!"

"I have to watch you," Bertholdt gasped, struggling to keep hold of Armin's tiny, slippery frame.

Armin groaned, and he glared at the doorframe. "Shit," he mumbled. "Two nooses! I'm so _stupid_!" He might have laughed, if he wasn't so scared. "One for me!" Armin pushed at Bertholdt's chest, and squeezed himself through the opening in his arms, slipping and stumbling as he skidded against the floor. "And— and one for my cellmate!"

"What?" Bertholdt asked weakly.

"In the dream!" Armin pushed himself to his feet, his heart pounding in time with his head. Very hard, and very harshly. "Everyone was in the dream, except—" Armin paused in the doorway, for Bertholdt had stopped trying to fight him. He felt dizzy, so he grasped the doorframe, and frowned into the darkened hall. "Where's Christa?"

Bertholdt stared at him, and his gaze was so frightened and confused that Armin could feel it at his back, and taste the terror there. "In her room…?" Bertholdt offered. "W-why?"

_I couldn't hurt Christa if I tried_, Armin reminded himself. _She'd beat me up easily_. But still, there was a nagging feeling in his stomach that he was missing something, and Christa was part of that. She had been his cellmate, after all. She'd been accused of witchcraft too. And Armin's mind, as tricky and sick as it was, seemed anxious to give him puzzles to sort through. This was just another equation he needed to solve. But there was a variable he couldn't find, and it was killing him.

Mikasa appeared before him, her eyes darting between them. She had a pile of clothes in her arm, and a frown pulling at her lips. "She's not there," she said, pushing the pile into Armin's arms.

He felt his heart sink at those words. "What do you mean?" he asked anxiously.

"Christa and Ymir aren't in their rooms," she said, glancing between Armin and Bertholdt. "I went to wake Christa up to see if she might… be able to help you somehow, but she wasn't there, so I checked Ymir's room."

"Ymir?" Armin swallowed, and he shook his head. "No, no, no. We can't trust Ymir."

"What do you mean?" Bertholdt asked, his voice cracking nervously. Armin whirled to face him, and he nearly toppled over from the wave of nausea that hit him.

"I—" Armin took a deep breath, and he swayed on his feet. "I… shit. I can't think right now."

"Then don't think," Mikasa said calmly. "Just get dressed. I'll make you some soup. Christa and Ymir aren't important right now."

"But we can't trust Ymir," Armin hissed, feeling stupid and silly, but he knew it was true.

"Okay," she said firmly, staring down into his eyes. "We can't trust Ymir. I believe you. But I don't care about Ymir. I care about you freezing to death."

Armin wanted to argue that a few minutes in a freezing tub wouldn't kill him, but it was pointless. "But Ymir's with Christa," he said, searching her face.

"Ymir would never hurt Christa," Bertholdt said, tugging the noose down from the light fixture. His head was bowed, and his shoulders were slumped. "She's probably safer with her, really…"

"But there were two—" Armin clamped his mouth shut. No one was listening to him. It meant nothing to them, this omen, this taunting revelation that there was something very clearly wrong with all of this. So instead of arguing, he nodded slowly. "Yeah, you're probably right." He needed to see reason. "She's probably fine." He had to make sense of this. "She's probably safer."

Mikasa nodded. She jerked her chin at Bertholdt, who kicked the towel noose out into the hall as he left the room. He glanced at Armin as he stood in the dark hallway, and he twisted his hands together and bit his lip. "I really don't know anything about Ymir," he said.

Armin stood in the freezing bathroom, his body shuddering, his heart pounding, his brain splitting in two. And he stared into Bertholdt's eyes, and let himself part the sea of strangled voices that muddled the boy's weary head. Inside Bertholdt's mind, he saw a glimpse of fire, and a stinging truth.

_Liar_, Armin sang inside Bertholdt's head.

He slammed the door shut.

* * *

After Armin had gotten dressed, feeling moderately better, and less like he was about to freeze in place, he exited the bathroom and contemplated the future paths he could take. He could continue to distrust Ymir with zero basis, while trusting Annie, with _absolutely_ zero basis, and he was beginning to wonder if he should just distrust everyone on principle.

Unless, of course, he'd been doing that all along.

The point was, Ymir definitely knew things that she was careful to keep from Armin's prying mind. Like Annie, she was hiding in her own head, only she was actually discrete. Ymir could easily hide in plain sight, while Annie had difficulty learning the difference between guarding and walling. The only reason Ymir had lasted so long without Armin's notice was because she didn't hide everything from him. She let him see parts of her, figuring that he didn't care to dig any deeper. And she'd played him. Annie didn't want him in her head at all. It made her conspicuous.

Then there was Bertholdt, who knew things, but was too confusing to read properly. Armin would not even attempt to forge a real link with him, because it would probably kill them both. Well, not literally, but it'd be excruciating. And Reiner…

Well, his mind was just really fucking weird.

Armin tasted panic as Reiner burst into the kitchen, glancing between the Armin, Mikasa, and Bertholdt. He was breathing rather heavily.

"Uh," Reiner said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Uh, guys…? Erwin's not here."

"What?" A shiver of panic bent across his spine. "Are you sure?"

"I searched literally every room in this apartment," Reiner gasped, throwing his hands up. "I swear! Like, I went into his room three times! I checked Hange's lab! Hell, I even went into Levi's room, and like fuck I'm ever doing that again, it's creepy as shit."

Armin slumped in his stool as Mikasa ladled soup into the bowl in front of him. His stomach turned, but the broth was clear, and Armin couldn't remember the last time he had eaten, so he picked up a spoon and carefully fanned at the steam rising from the surface. He pushed the liquid around idly, listening to its swoosh against the walls of the bowl.

"That's really strange," Armin said. "He usually tells me when he leaves in the middle of the night."

"Does this happen often?" Mikasa asked, pushing the pot she had used to a cool burner, and turning off the stove.

"No," he said, staring down at his soup. He almost missed living alone with Erwin. It was easier then, and it hurt so much less. "But Erwin's an adult. I never asked where he went out of respect for his privacy."

"Oh my god," Reiner gasped, thumping his fist onto the counter. "I've got it! Erwin's got a mistress!"

Armin side eyed him. He took a spoonful of soup and pressed the scalding liquid to his mouth to keep from saying something he'd regret. It made his eyes water, and his stomach turn, but he swallowed it and all its burning glory. It seared his throat and sent his chest ablaze.

"Armin thinks that's fucking stupid," Mikasa told Reiner matter-of-factly. Armin nearly choked.

Reiner's thick eyebrow shot upward, and he grinned broadly. "Oh yeah?" Reiner asked. "Well Armin can tell me that himself."

Armin carefully pulled the spoon from his lips, and flushed. "Well," he said, "um… it's not outside the realm of possibilities, but Erwin's never had reason to keep a girlfriend from me."

"Well he wasn't gonna get it on with anyone with your precious baby ears in proximity," Reiner snorted. Armin blinked as the boy's massive knuckles rapped gently against the damp crown of his head. "And your precious baby mind. Like, what would that even be like, hearing their minds while they—"

"I can't read Erwin's mind," Armin cut him off. "But I imagine it'd be unpleasant. But trust me, that's not the case here."

"Okay, well, fine." Reiner collapsed on the stool beside Armin. "He's not with his secret lover. Then where the hell did he go?"

"I don't know," Armin said softly. "Sometimes his power leads him to strange places."

"Okay, well, real talk." Reiner leaned back as Armin continued to spoon soup into his mouth. His stomach objected, but his mind forced his hand. He needed to eat. "No adults, no school. Right?"

"Yeah," Mikasa said. "Besides, Armin isn't okay enough to go to school."

"Thanks," Armin said, feeling a little bitter despite knowing it was true. "You guys can go back to sleep if you want."

"I don't think so." Mikasa watched him with her dark eyes narrowing. "You won't fall asleep, so neither will I."

"How do you…?" Armin saw the look in her eye, and he wondered just how much of his mind she could see into. It seemed the more exposed she was to him, the more she felt for him, and the more open his thoughts were to her. "You don't have to do that."

"Just eat." She leaned away from the stove, and glanced between the three boys standing before her. Armin felt like their little army had dwindled. And it was a scary thought. But he did as he was told, and scooped up as much soup as he could handle, the warm broth trickling down his throat. It was almost a nice feeling, if not for the aching nausea.

When he was done, the four of them decided to relocate to the living room. Reiner had declared that he wouldn't rest until Armin felt better, and Bertholdt just looked down. Armin could try and steal his thoughts again, but he was too exhausted, so he left the poor boy alone. They all crammed themselves onto one couch, a large blanket shared between them as they debated on movies to watch. In the end they let Armin pick, and without hesitation he chose _Les Misérables_. The movie took his mind off his concern for Eren, his distrust of Ymir, his fear for his sanity, and his deepening exhaustion.

They spent a few hours killing time like this until it was midmorning, and Armin was falling asleep on Mikasa's shoulder. He finally decided to go to bed, and he ducked out of the living room and into the hall. Mikasa called out to his mind, the taste of her reassuring him that he was safe here_. If something is wrong_, she thought to him, _I'll know_. He was glad for that.

He entered his room, which was messier than how he'd left it, and he realized it must have been because Mikasa had searched for his inhaler. She probably had not found it, because it wasn't in his room. He sighed, and drifted toward his computer. As he did so, he noticed his notebook open beside it, words bleeding against the page. It wasn't in any language that Armin recognized, and he brought it closer to the light pooling in through his window. He realized, stunned, that it was in English, and his eyes had mixed up the words in which he had read.

_Don't trust anyone_.

It was written in his own handwriting. Armin didn't remember writing anything down, of course, so he quickly closed the notebook and tossed it onto the desk. He quickly checked his video diaries to make sure he didn't make one in his sleep, but thankfully there was nothing new except for a news clipping from _The Brigade's_ website. It was stamped seven years ago, and it was about a fire in Oklahoma that killed a woman and left a boy motherless.

Armin stared at the screen blankly. He closed his laptop, and he pulled the shade down over his window, and he lay down on his bed, his aching limbs shuddering with relief. Don't trust anyone? That was impossible. Armin wasn't incredibly trusting by nature, but there were just some people he couldn't turn away from. Mikasa, for one, and Eren for sure. Erwin was someone Armin didn't want to trust, but it hurt not to. And now he curled up against his mattress and puzzled over Erwin's disappearance. There had to be a reason he hadn't informed Armin, and it couldn't be because Armin had been resting. Erwin simply didn't care if Armin was sleeping or not. If he wanted to tell Armin something, he would tell him no matter what.

So what had Erwin been avoiding?

Armin buried his face in his pillow, and he mentally ticked off the things he knew about Ymir. She'd been possessed. She was possibly a hundred years old. She was very important to the institute for some obscure reason, because of Ilse, who she possibly was. Of course, that left the question of who the woman who had given Connie his super speed was if not Ilse Langner.

"You're working yourself too hard."

Armin opened his eyes, and saw Marco's face hovering very close to his. At this point it did not surprise him. The freckles dotting his warm skin could not be discerned by Armin's hazy vision. _I need my glasses_, he thought bitterly. He stared at Marco's face, and the boy stared back innocently, and then he smiled brightly. He was kneeling, his elbows resting on the edge of Armin's mattress.

"What is it?" Marco asked. "You look like you've seen a ghost, Armin."

"You really need to leave me alone," Armin whispered. "Mikasa'll know."

"What?" Marco leaned away from him, and looked around vacantly. "Am I not allowed in your room? We're not doing anything bad, are we?" He laughed again, and it was a bright, teasing sound that almost made Armin feel better. If not for the fact that it came out of a dead boy's mouth.

"I don't want her to know how bad this is getting," Armin sighed, rolling onto his back so he no longer had to look at Marco. The ceiling was remarkably less pleasant to look at. "I shouldn't even be talking to you. I'm just adding fuel to the fire."

"I thought we were friends," Marco said, sounding a little hurt. "I helped you control your power a little, remember?"

"Now you're just making it worse." Armin kept his feelings in check. He wouldn't let himself get panicked over this, and he wouldn't let the thoughts slip through the link established between himself and Mikasa. He had to remember that he was in control here. "And I definitely didn't know you well enough to instigate this kind of torture. Go haunt Jean, or something."

"Jean doesn't deserve that sort of grief," Marco whispered.

Armin refused to glance at him. He yawned, and stretched his arms behind his head. "And I do?" Armin didn't expect Marco to answer. "Right. Of course. Because I'm a liar."

"We're all liars," Marco said gently. "Not just you."

"But it's not like I know when I'm lying," Armin sighed. "Not really. Annie made me realize that I lie without even thinking. I think I'm telling the truth, but then it turns out I'm not. She's completely frozen a chunk of my mind."

"She does have that affect," Marco admitted dryly. Armin smiled. His subconscious was a horrible place, with this sort of humor thrown about at the expense of a dead comrade.

"I'm going to sleep," Armin declared, flipping onto his side so his back faced Marco. "Go away."

"You're being really rude, you know…" Marco sighed. "It's not like I have anyone to talk to. You're the only one that listens, you know. I talk and talk, but no one spares me a glance except you. And you're not even scared of me, not really, and that makes me so happy, Armin. Why should I leave when being around you makes me so happy?"

"That's really creepy," Armin mumbled, closing his eyes. His ears were ringing from the residue of Marco's words. They sounded so sweet, and yet they felt poisonous inside the chilly depths of Armin's mind. _Don't trust anyone_, he reminded himself. _Especially not this thing_.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that," Marco said gently. "But you won't make me go away by wishing me gone. You'll need to try a lot harder."

Armin squeezed his eyes shut, and willed himself to go to sleep. But lucidity plagued him. He hated it, and wished for fog to numb his senses. He'd almost take back the witch trial dream just to be rid of this apparition. He stayed like this for a very long time, never turning his head to see if Marco was still there. Mikasa never came to check up on him, thank god, but it also made him feel empty and alone when he fell into a dreamless sleep, and awoke to pure darkness. There was someone knocking at his door, and he sat up groggily, feeling as though there was water clogging his ears and nose, and putting pressure on his cluttered brain.

"C'min," he called thickly, rubbing the sleep from his watery eyes. Light poured in from the hallway, and Armin saw Marco was gone. Thank god. He glanced back at the doorway, and a tiny figure stood a little disgruntled and a little breathless, a black silhouette against the blinding white hall.

"Oh," Christa gasped, flicking on the light. "I'm sorry." She threw a glance into the hall, and shuffled into Armin's room, kicking the door closed behind her. "Did I wake you up?"

"No," Armin said, shaking his head. "Nope." He smiled very weakly, and blinked blearily at her as he stifled a yawn. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," she blurted, and he could tell that she had spoken without thinking, for her entire body slumped, and she took a deep breath. "Well, no. Not really. Ymir…" She inhaled very deeply, and then sighed. "That's not important, really… not right now."

Armin felt a little stunned. He squinted at Christa, trying to understand what this girl was feeling with all her mixed gestures and uncertain words and strained voice. She looked to be a complete wreck, and she acted like it too. It was very clear that she was lost, and probably a little scared. "Where were you?"

"Oh…" Christa rested her back against his door, and she sighed breathlessly. Armin squinted at her tiny frame, and he crawled across his bed and reached for his glasses on his nightstand. When he was able to see her clearly, he noticed how utterly disastrous she looked. Her hair was in a messy ponytail, sticking up all around her head, and dirt caked its pale strands and her flushed skin was grimy. She looked as though she'd been digging a hole all day, and her clothes didn't say anything to deter that thought. She was wearing black mud-stained leggings, and boots caked in cracked grayish brown clay. Soot licked up her bare arm, which had a torn, tinged blue sleeve. The rest of her sweater was in one piece, but blackened from dirt and soot as well. And yet she looked no worse for wear. There was not a scratch on her. "Ymir and I went to the institute."

Armin sat up very straight. "Why?" he asked eagerly. "Erwin and Hange and Levi already searched it."

"We were both curious about different things," Christa said softly. "We had this conversation before, Armin, remember?"

He sat, stunned, and he shook his head mutely. No. He didn't remember. When had that been? Christa merely sighed again, and she kept looking at his face, her brow furrowing, and then her eyes darting away nervously. They always trailed back with curiosity glowing deeply there.

"Well," she said, "I… oh, this is weird…" She pushed her hair behind her ears, and she straightened up. "I want to know something, Armin. Why did you call me Historia?"

"What?" Armin was at a loss. "I've never…" It struck him as strange now to look at Christa, her pretty face and her mind out of reach, and he realized he had no idea if she was real or not. Was this a dream too? "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Historia," Christa repeated. "You said it to me at _the Brigade's_ headquarters in Philadelphia. Remember? You were close to having a— a seizure, maybe— and you called me Vitae, and then Christa, and then Historia."

"I don't remember that," Armin whispered, horrified. The name was familiar, and he looked at her face, searched it desperately. _Oh_, he thought. _Right. Of course. Why didn't I think of it before?_ He didn't have much information about Beta's mission, but he knew that they had succeeded because Ymir had brought up Reiss's daughter to him. Historia. It had broken him. "Historia Reiss."

"Yes." She stared at him, and she pushed off the door, looking almost eager. "Yes, that's me. Do you remember me?"

"Remember…?" He was lost again. "Wait, hold on a minute. You're Historia Reiss. The president's daughter?"

She sighed, and rolled her eyes. She looked a little impatient. "Yes," she said. "That's an inconsequential detail."

"It really isn't," he argued, brow furrowing.

"Well, at the moment, it's not important." Christa— Historia…? Whoever this tiny blonde girl was, she seemed to have gotten fiercer in her journey. "But I really need to know how you knew my name."

"I have no idea," he said, his eyes widening, "honest. I don't even…" But a memory surfaced then, something that had been triggered by a massive mind wipe. His own memory glinting in the depths of his empty past. He stared at Historia, and she stared back. She wandered over to his desk, and sifted through the piles of papers and notebooks. She plucked a watercolor painting he'd done at one point, possibly during the week, possibly during the last few months, though Armin didn't really remember doing it. It was nothing special. Just a bunch of roses in a vase. And it was pretty poorly done, because Armin was not an artist.

"I've come up with a theory," Historia said. "You can believe it or not. But I think I know why you know my name. Why Verman knew both of us, but we never met before the team got together. Why I think I was put into a coma."

Armin didn't comment about the fact that she had been in a coma. He had not known this fact. "I love theories," Armin said, searching her face. "I'm all ears."

He noticed then that her eyes softened, and she looked almost like the girl he was used to. Almost. And he could see a flash of a memory that was not his, a gap-toothed smiling girl peeking shyly out a door. And Armin recalled that door. He'd gripped its heavy handle and yanked many times. The library. The roses in the vase. Crumbling beneath his tiny fingers. Armin bit his lip. "Historia?" Verman had asked, blinking into the library down at Armin. And Armin had been so uncomfortable, because they really didn't look that alike, did they?

No.

But he thought he could see traces of himself in her eyes and her mouth. Her hair, of course.

They stared at each other, sizing each other up.

"I heard you don't remember much before the institute," Historia said.

"I don't remember much during, either," he told her dully, feeling his heart thud very hard. "Or after, as it happens. I don't even know if Arlelt is really my name…"

"I suppose you're the lucky one." She was assessing his features just as he was assessing hers, and he rested his shaking hands on his knees, feeling awkward and terrified. He had always assumed he was orphaned.

"Christ—" He took a deep breath, and shook his head. "Historia. Tell me that theory. Please."

She watched him with a level gaze, and she nodded. "I think my mother was not the woman my father was married to, but his mistress," she said. "And I think she might have been your mother too."

* * *

_If you aren't familiar with my affinity for making Historia and Armin siblings, you should read my fic Histories and Annals, which is all about how they could be siblings in canon. It's my favorite thing in the entire world to imagine, no joke._

_Um, aside from the whole secretly related thing (FAVORITE TROPE, I'M SORRY, I DON'T CARE IF IT'S CLICHE), we've got... hallucinations, sleep walking, suicide attempts, weird fucking dreams, and then the grander mystery of what the fuck is going on with Ymir._

_I'm sorry if it's hard to follow. =/ But there's not much I can do on that. A mystery is a mystery!_

_I really enjoy hearing your theories about what's happening, it's amazing._


	18. fire tests gold

**ignis aurum probat**

**Rome, Italy **

_a.d. Idus Octobres, 2677 A.U.C_

They were in a bind, getting back to the hotel. Levi had refused to let Eren help him, so Eren had simply watched as the man dragged himself through the streets of Rome, bleeding out on the faded cobbled stones, and he didn't complain once. Eren was merely nursing his ego, and his heartache. How could Annie do this? How could she? What had they done to deserve this betrayal? It wasn't fair!

Levi made Eren turn down an alley instead of going straight to the front of the hotel, and he stopped in front of a column of towering balconies. He stared up at them, and turned to Eren, his bloody fingers pressing harder against his side wound. Eren was lost in his own thoughts, peering up at the balconies while trying to figure out which one was theirs. Levi was watching him with a dark, apologetic gaze, and Eren blinked down at him.

"We have to get up there."

"What?" Eren asked, hoping he didn't sound too worried. He didn't think Levi liked being fussed over. "Um, are you—?"

Eren screamed, and clamped his hands over his mouth to stifle it as pain crashed into him, entire body buckling in agony as Levi's foot slammed into Eren's shin, effectively crushing it. Eren heard his bones crack and shatter and shoot into his muscle, and then a blaze of fire erupted from the decimated bone, opening up his pores to allow ribbons of new nerves to shoot out, erupt in aching, hissing, furious life. Eren understood what Levi had done, through the blinding, blurring pain of it, but it was a shock that he had not anticipated, not prepared for, and the Rogue limb shot into existence with a rip of enthusiasm, binding his broken leg in new flesh and new bone, ribbons of it curling across his skin and taking him off the ground.

Before Eren knew it, he was shooting upward, his new leg giving him the height necessary to reach their balcony. Levi was hanging onto Eren by the hem of his sweatshirt, perching himself upon the massive limb that had erupted from his own violence. He jumped down upon a balcony after a few seconds of gaining altitude, and tore Eren down with him. The leg went crumbling as it was severed from him, tendons and muscle unfurled around them in a blanket of thick steam. Eren was sprawled across the concrete floor of the balcony, curled into himself and a little traumatized. His leg was still throbbing from the phantom pain, and his body was shaking from the stress of the transformation, the energy it had stolen from him.

"Sorry," Levi said.

Eren swallowed thickly, tears stinging his eyes. Levi was breathing heavily through his nose, leaning against the bars of the balcony— no, _supporting_ himself on the bars of the balcony— and blinking vacantly at Eren. So he pushed himself upright shakily, sitting on his heels and willing his tears away. This was no time to be a child. This was real danger upon them, a real threat of being cut away from their team. They needed to act quickly if they wanted to get home.

"It's… fine," Eren said, unsure if he was right to lie. "Just warn me next time you break one of my limbs, okay?"

Levi gave a sharp, derisive noise, but then he looked at Eren, and his eyes softened in pity. "Fine," he said. He turned away, and pushed open the sliding door. "We need to get our stuff and get out of here. We've attracted too much attention."

"Where can we go?" Eren asked, picking himself off the floor. His leg didn't really hurt anymore. "We don't have passports, remember? We can't go home."

Levi was tracking blood, like… everywhere. Eren grimaced, and he watched the man trudge to the bathroom door. "I'm not waiting for someone to come here and attack us," he said.

"I don't think that was their intention," Eren said, feeling desperate. This was bad. Levi would send them dodging and hiding, evading everyone and anyone familiar. No, that wouldn't do. "I think they just wanted us to stop looking for my dad. And it worked. We can't look anymore. Let's just stay here and wait it out until…"

"Until what?" Levi asked, watching Eren with his pale eyes dulling. He was very clearly in a lot of pain, and Eren was growing lightheaded just looking at him. "What the fuck are we waiting for?"

"I…" Eren felt surprised, because he wasn't sure what to do. Levi was hurt really bad, and they really couldn't afford to wait for medical attention, but it wasn't like the man would even go to a hospital. They were stuck. "Hange will come if we don't check in with them. I know they will. That's why we should wait here. They won't be able to find us if we leave."

Levi stared at him blankly. He sighed, and shook his head, entering the bathroom and slamming the door shut. Eren stood vacantly, feeling empty and throttled and a little furious. He flopped onto his bed, his legs hanging off the edge as he fell very suddenly into slumber, thinking about how much food he'd need to consume to get his energy back up.

He woke up to something pricking his finger. He instinctively pulled away, rolling onto his side and drawing his hands closer to his chest, but a hand snatched his wrist, and Eren's eyes snapped open. Levi was standing over him, not even looking at his face, and his eyes were narrowed and furious, glowering down at Eren's dark hand.

"What're you doin'?" Eren asked, feeling very confused and sleepy, exhaustion clinging to his every thought. He blinked dazedly as Levi stuck one of his fingers against something cold, and a familiar pinprick of pain startled Eren upright. "Hey!"

"Why the fuck isn't this working?" Levi asked dully. He held up Eren's lancet. Oh. Well, that explained that. Eren choked on his disbelieving laugh, and he rubbed his eye blearily as Levi glowered at him. How hopeless this man was at taking care of people! No wonder Mikasa complained. "Stop laughing."

"Sorry," Eren said, blinking sleep from his eyes at he peered at Levi's swollen face. "But you could've just woken me up."

"I've done this eight fucking times," Levi said, "and you didn't wake up. Tell me what's wrong with this thing."

"Nothing," Eren said, taking the lancet from Levi and rolling the plastic device in his palm. "You're just not quick enough. You have to get the glucometer ready before you prick my finger. Also, don't prick the tips of my fingers, okay? It hurts more because there's more nerves there— and change the lancet! It's dull now, so it hurts even more!"

Levi stood like a child who had just been scolded, his brow furrowing and his head bowing. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, watching Eren as he pulled his diabetic kit closer, and quickly changed the dulled lancet. Eren had done this a thousand times, and he wondered how strange it must be to an outsider. When Eren was done, he carefully fixed the glucometer, resting it on his lap as he brought the lancet close.

"You disinfected my fingers before you pricked them, didn't you?" Eren asked. He could smell the alcohol, and it made him a little nauseous.

"I wasn't just going to stab you without know where that shit has been," Levi said stiffly. He was standing awkwardly, Eren noticed, favoring his right side and looking rather dazed.

"Well considering lancets aren't supposed to be overused," Eren said, rolling his eyes, "it really hasn't been anywhere."

He prick the pad of his index finger careful to mind the nerves, and he dropped the lancet fast enough to grab the glucometer as blood beaded on the surface of his skin. The tiny pool of it was being soaked up again very fast, and Eren squeezed it to keep the wound from closing. He wiped the beading blood on the blood glucose test strip, and he licked up the residual smear of it. The wound was closed by now anyway. He noticed the disgust in Levi's face, and Eren couldn't help but laugh again, blood stinging his tongue.

"That's disgusting," Levi said, looking uncomfortable.

"It's easier then wiping the blood off every single time I prick my finger," Eren said. "It's my blood, I can do what I want."

"That's fucking disgusting." Levi shook his head as the glucometer beeped, and told Eren that his blood sugar count was normal enough. "How come you don't transform every time you prick your finger?"

"Well…" Eren shrugged, gathering up his diabetic tools and sorting them out. "I've gotta have a goal in mind when I transform. It doesn't always work, y'know? I have to really want to transform, like really, really want to. It's different when someone breaks my leg and someone pricks my finger. I'm not gonna become a giant beast just 'cause I need to check my blood sugar."

Levi nodded slowly, thought Eren didn't think he really understood. He looked tired, and pale, and Eren wondered how he was doing. If Levi had patched himself up while Eren had been sleeping, or…? Well, he wasn't bleeding out, as far as Eren could see, so that was good. Eren watched Levi turn away, still favoring his right side, and he moved toward the balcony window. It was dark now, and the lights of Rome did not reach the little alley outside, despite the sounds of the city screeching through the screen and the glass. Sirens were wailing, laughter was heard, shouts in Italian and other languages swirling amongst the masses and muffling against Eren's ears.

"Are we staying here?" Eren asked.

"Yes," Levi said.

They sat awkwardly in their silence, and Eren closed his kit, feeling that he was growing used to being around Levi. He wasn't really a nice person, but neither was Eren, really, so it didn't matter too much. The point was that he tried. He wanted to be better, and he wanted to help, but he just… didn't seem to know how? Eren would have to watch Levi more closely, but it seemed like he just wanted to protect people as best he could. Even if he was a little scary, it didn't really matter much, because he tried. Right?

"Is your back okay?"

"Worry more about the gaping hole in my side, Eren," Levi said. "Not my damn tattoo."

"But…" Eren sighed. It had looked pretty bad when he had last seen it. What was with that thing, anyway? Why a tattoo? Why wings? It made no sense to Eren, but then, none of their powers made much sense. "Hey, Levi? How come your strength is natural? Like Mikasa's?"

"I have no clue."

"But there's gotta be a reason." Eren flopped his back onto the bed, and stared up at the ceiling. "There's gotta be a reason why they chose you. They didn't really want me, I don't think— my dad didn't want me to do it, anyway, so I don't think I was a planned experiment, just an unexpected subject. But they had to have known you already had powers before, y'know? Like, I wonder if they knew Mikasa had powers before too."

"I… I'm not sure. Ask someone else."

"You two are the only ones, though," he sighed. "The rest of us got given powers. You two were born with 'em. Or, like, the genetic potential, or whatever. I dunno. But I figure, there had to be a reason Mikasa's parents were killed, and like… they knew. They knew they were in danger, they had to have know, 'cause they had a panic room all ready to go." Eren stared at the ceiling dazedly, watching the fissures in the orange paint, following it with his eyes. He felt like there was smoke building inside his throat, and it hurt. "And my father… my father knew they were dead. Before the feds even got there. We were on that house before the bodies got cold, I remember, 'cause I was there, and while my dad was focusing on Mikasa's parents, lookin' for her corpse, I ended up finding her in a panic room. I think she was gonna try and kill me, but I think it helped that I was a kid too, so she didn't, and she let me talk her out of there. Maybe I should've just…" Eren swallowed, ashes clouding his vision. "Just… let her go… maybe she'd be better off, without all that institute stuff gettin' to her. Maybe…" Eren coughed, and smoke burned his lungs.

"Eren?" Levi asked.

Tears filled his eyes. Ashes clouded his vision. His legs hurt. The braces were digging into his muscles, and they hurt.

"Eren?"

The ashes weren't there anymore, just tears, and he scowled, and he shied away from the voice, the sweet as honey voice that cajoled him from the kitchen. His mother's soft hands pressed to his face, smoothing back his matted hair and kissing the tears prickling the corner of his eye. She smelled so familiar, so achingly like flowers and soap, and Eren twisted his face away stubbornly. Stupid mom, stupid dad, stupid work always messing things up.

"I don't like her," Eren said fiercely. "She's weird. Look how she's dressed, mom, she's way outta her head."

"Eren," his mother scolded, swatting him over his head. He grunted, and scowled at the floor. "We don't judge people for how they dress. Especially nice young ladies who don't have anywhere else to go."

"She's from _there_, mom," Eren hissed, glaring at the kitchen door. "Aren't you gonna tell dad?"

"I don't see any need for that right now," his mother sighed, glancing quickly at the door. "She's had a rough time of it, looks like. And if they're treatin' those children poorly, I don't think…" She paused, trailing off and looking down at Eren with her amber eyes aglow, fear stretching across her face and melting like honey into a gentle expression. She laughed. "Oh, Eren, wouldn't it be nice if you had a friend? She's such a sweet girl."

"I have friends," Eren hissed. "Armin. He's my friend."

"Yes, yes, but Armin is…" Once again his mother caught herself, looking very sheepish. "Well, at least you have Mikasa, I suppose."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Eren asked, scowling.

She patted his head, and he felt angry and stupid, because none of the damn grown ups ever told him anything. They always seemed to forget at the last minute that he was a child, and never gave him any details. It was a terrible life, one of secrets dangling just out of arm's reach.

"Just talk to her," his mother said. "And don't cry just because I've focused my attention elsewhere. You're a big boy, Eren."

"That wasn't why I was crying," Eren said stiffly. "My legs hurt."

"Oh. Oh no." His mother looked a little alarmed, and she bit her lip, and nodded. "How bad is it, Eren? Can you walk? Should I call—?"

"It's fine," Eren snapped, gritting his teeth as he pushed away from her. His braces made obnoxious clicking noises as they snapped together, his legs moving slowly. His legs were aching terribly, and his lungs felt like they were swelling up in his chest, and his braces were annoying, clacking and clicking and cursing him with clashing sounds. He couldn't take it. He'd better off without them, no matter how much it hurt. "I hate these things."

"They help you," his mother whispered. "Eren… I know it's hard, but—"

"Whatever." Eren pushed past her, every step a chore, and he moved into the kitchen. The girl was sitting at the counter, looking down at the stew his mother had given her. Her dress was white, a shapeless frock that Eren thought looked awfully old and outdated. Her skin was a little darker than Eren's but not by much. He stood in the doorway, watching her was she began to shake, and he wondered if she'd start to cry.

"Hey," Eren said, hobbling his way to the counter, his legs flaring up with pain with every little bending of his joints. She looked up very sharply, her large brown eyes growing fearful as they landed on his face. She had a lot of freckles, and it made her face even darker. She was trembling, and knuckles white against the countertop. "Are you okay?"

She looked down. And then she shook her head. Eren thought that was weird.

_This isn't right_, he thought. The voice inside his head was older, wiser, and furious_. I know this girl_.

"I don't know how to get out," the girl whispered, breathless and tearful. "I don't know, I don't know… oh god, what if I can't get out?"

"What're you talking about?" Eren looked at her, and he wondered if he was wrong to distrust her. She seemed terrified. "You can leave if you want. I won't stop you. But then my dad won't be able to help you."

She clamped her hands over her eyes, and she shook her head. "She's screaming… she's… oh no, please, please tell her I didn't mean it, I didn't want to do it, honest…"

"Oh sweet baby Jesus," Eren breathed, "you've cracked, honey."

The girl looked at Eren suddenly, sharply, teary eyes gleaming and glowing and glazed over in a pained, distant glint. "Tell her I didn't mean to," the girl said. "She won't stop screaming at me, and I don't know what to do. Tell her. She's angry, and it's hurting me, it's…" She held her head, and hissed through her teeth. The girl blinked suddenly, and leaned back, wiping the tears carefully from her cheeks. Her expression had gone cold, and she grimaced at the tears glistening on her fingers. "What's your name?"

"Um…" He took a careful step back. _Why is she so familiar?_ Eren wondered. His mind was clouded by smoke and pain. _Why are there braces on my legs?_

She coughed suddenly, wicked knifing cough that sliced through the air and cut through her throat and through his brain, and she clamped her hands over her mouth. She pulled them back, and Eren saw blood glistening there.

They stared at each other, wide eyed and terrified.

"I'm mighty sick," she whispered.

"So am I," Eren admitted, staring down at his leg braces.

The girl, with all her blood, and all her freckles, and all her strange words and confusing expressions, she smiled. "I've been sick a real long time," she said. "You haven't, though. Monster."

"What the heck?" Eren took another step back, and his joints screamed in pain. "I ain't a monster, hon, you're the one goin' cuckoo."

"Not you," sighed the girl. "The monster in my head. Maybe we should both just beat it."

"My dad might be able to fix you," Eren offered faintly, unable to stop himself from pitying the girl.

"If I was gonna be fixed, I would've been by now." She sat on a stool, looking tired and frustrated. "But then, I should be dead anyhow. Why don't you get your old man to fix you?"

"I don't…" Eren stood, stunned. Why didn't he? He was so weak, but his father made promises all the time to make people strong. Why not Eren too? "I don't know. I never thought of it before."

"Don't do it," the girl blurted, eyes wide. "It's not worth it, it's not worth it, don't listen to her, she doesn't understand, she doesn't know— it's not—"

Eren stumbled away in terror, not sure why the girl was scaring his so much, why he couldn't just punch her and be done with it. But he was terrified of this girl, and these words, and he wanted it to stop. "Mom," he called, his voice breaking in shock. There wasn't any answer, so she must not have been in the house, and Eren backed away from the girl, from this girl that an older boy knew, and he edged his way to the back door. Maybe his mother was in the garden. He could always find her in the garden.

"I didn't mean to," the girl was sobbing, shaking, screeching into her hands. "Oh, god, I'm sorry, I can't… I can't get out, I don't know how, please, Ymir, I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_—"

Eren fled from the house, his muscles screeching with the same pained desperation that pervaded the girl's voice. _Ymir_, he thought. _Ymir, Ymir. Ymir_. He tripped in the half-frozen garden, his braces locking, and he skidded into the dirt, choking on fertilizer. It was dark out, painfully dark, and he felt around blindly. He could hear screaming from inside.

"Mom?"

The taste of smoke filled his mouth. It was stifling. Choking. He tried to push himself to his feet, but his braces were locked. He couldn't move. He sat in the garden, blinking dazedly into the black cloud that billowed from the open window. His eyes grew wide, and he felt the smoke fly against them, stinging and scratching and startling him. He could hear screaming. He felt it in his deteriorating muscles, in his weak little bones.

"Mom…?"

He struggled to push himself up, but the braces weren't working, and his joints were aflame, and he screamed, tears gathering in his eyes, and he clawed at the dirt, hopelessly trying to drag himself toward his smoking, searing, screeching house. But no matter what he tried, he was stuck, and he was screaming, pain lancing through his tiny body as he tried to crawl his way back to the house. It was engulfed in flames now, and he watched, and he watched, and he watched, screaming in pain and terror.

"_**MOM**_!"

Eren bolted upright, heaving breaths and blinking back tears. He stared ahead of him vacantly for a few moments, breathing heavily, and he looked down at his legs. _No braces_, he thought numbly. _Why did I have braces? Did I have braces?_ He clapped his hands over his eyes, and he gritted his teeth in fury. No, this wasn't right. This wasn't fucking fair, what kind of memory was that? _Ymir. Ymir. Ymir_.

He scrubbed at his eyes, exhaling sharply through his teeth. He didn't even remember falling asleep. Of course he didn't. He needed to take his meds, because this irregularity was making his head hurt.

"Is he alright?" a voice asked softly, a familiar lilt catching Eren's attention. His eyes turned to Rico's face, and he slumped. She was watching him with her thick eyebrows furrowing in concern, and it made him feel a little better inexplicably.

"I…" Eren pushed himself off the bed, and wobbled on his feet. He stared at his legs, and he felt like he was going to throw up. "I had a dream that… that I had braces on my legs. That I couldn't move. That I couldn't save my mother."

"Sounds terrible," Levi said dryly. He was sitting on the floor with his back pressed to the balcony window. Pixis was standing by the door, watching Eren with his wrinkled eyes curiously darting, searching, blinking.

"Would you mind elaborating a bit, Eren?" Pixis asked. Eren took a deep breath. He head was swimming, but he knew, he knew, he _knew_ it hadn't been just a dream.

"I had a dream about my mom," he said slowly. "About how she died." His heart was beating very hard, and he stared straight ahead, fury consuming him. "I know who killed her." _I know now_, Eren thought. _I know_.

"Killed?" Pixis looked at Eren, and there was a strange hunger in his eyes, information just within the newsman's reach, and Eren could tell that he wanted it. "I had heard it was an accident. A terrible accident."

Eren would have laughed if he weren't so angry. "Is that what my father said?" He was shaking, his eyes flashing viciously to Pixis's face. "Because it wasn't. It wasn't an accident at all. And the worst of it… the worst thing is, I could've stopped her. I was there, and I was talkin' to her, but I ran away because she _scared_ me!" Eren did laugh this time, and he found that he didn't feel any better by doing so. He was shaking so terribly, he thought it might be true, then that he'd needed braces to walk back then. "Why was I so weak? I've never been scared of anythin' like that before, without any reason to be, and I just ran away like— like—!"

"A child." Levi rose to his feet, leaning against the window for support. "You were a child, Eren. Care to remember that."

"But I could have—!" Eren's voice cracked miserably, and he knew that Levi was probably right, but it didn't make any difference. Eren felt sickened by these revelations. What was he going to do? He certainly wasn't afraid of that little girl anymore. So how was he to get his revenge, then? Kill Ymir and be done with it? Could he do that? Could he…?

"Maybe you should sit down," Rico said. She didn't say it harshly, but her voice wasn't exactly kind either. Eren threw her a scathing glare, and he slumped defensively.

"Look," he said, feeling breathless and disgusted, "I don't know what the fuck just happened to me, but I know it was real. I know that my mom was killed by…" He didn't know why he was having such a hard time saying it. Maybe he just didn't know what to do with this information. He didn't know if he could kill Ymir, truly.

"Do you not know?" Pixis asked.

"I know," Eren snapped. "I know, okay? It's just… I wish…" He closed his eyes, if only because they were burning with tears. He couldn't take anymore betrayals, even if he didn't really know Ymir. This was too much. "I don't understand why this happened. I don't… I don't…"

"Hey," Rico said. "Calm down. Breathe."

"Listen to the bitch, Eren," Levi said. "She actually knows what she's talking about for once."

"Piss off," Rico hissed, her eyes narrowing icily behind her glasses. She rounded the bed, and took Eren by the hands, forcing him to look down at her. "You need to relax. No one is pressuring you for this information, Eren. You can't push yourself until you snap on this one, yeah? Just take a few minutes to breathe, and sort out your thoughts. We'll still be here when you're done thinking it over."

Eren found himself swallowing thickly, and nodding, because what else was he to do? He sat down at the edge of his bed, pinching his leg to be sure there was no brace hidden beneath the fabric of his jeans, and his heart ached. He didn't know what any of it meant. What had Ymir been doing in his house, anyway? Had she meant to kill his mother, or was it just another test, like any other from the institute?

The world was becoming so stifling, and Eren felt it closing in on him. There was a truth hidden in his memories that he couldn't reach. It was the truth the girl who had looked like Ymir had spoke of, but would not tell. It was the truth his father held. It was a truth that needed to be unearthed, or else Eren would suffocate in the lies. He needed it.

"Hey, Levi," Eren said, staring at his legs. He bent them cautiously, wondering how they had felt in that hazy, fading dream. "If I killed someone, would that make me less of a hero?"

Levi stared at him, and of course this question had surprised him. Eren felt sick trying to recall Ymir's tiny, twisted face, and he imagined punching it in. He imagined shaking her until she broke. He just wanted answers, and it wasn't fair. His thoughts were muddled with sleep and confusion, and there was fog and smoke clouding his memories. Someone had wanted him to forget all about Ymir's involvement in his mother's death.

"You aren't killing anyone," Levi said flatly.

"But what if I did?" Eren raised his eyes to Levi, and he jumped to his feet, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "What if I went home, and I walked through the front door, and just ripped someone's throat out?"

"What the hell is this about?" Levi's eyes narrowed, and he shifted his weight carefully to his right side.

"I know who killed my mother," Eren said distantly. "But if I killed her, what would that do? I can't get my mother back, and I don't even know if I can trust my memories, so what am I supposed to do?"

"Calm down," Rico reminded him, standing at the foot of the bed.

Eren rounded on her. "Was my dad in Berlin?" he asked, feeling desperate. "I need to talk to him. He…" Eren groaned, and he gripped his head in frustration. "I can't… remember a lot of the dream— the memory, but… but I know it was real!" Damn, this was confusing! He needed to focus, and remember. He had to remember!

"Your father wasn't in Berlin," Pixis said. "But it seems to me that you've just acquired more valuable information than any of us could hope for."

Eren blinked at him dazedly. "What?" he asked weakly.

"You talk of your mother's killer," Pixis said. "A girl. Would it happen to be the young girl I spoke of in London? The one you assured me did not exist?"

Eren felt like someone had punched him in the gut. "Oh my god," he murmured, pulled his hands over his eyes. Of course. Someone had definitely tampered with his memories to force him to forget Ymir's face, and her involvement in the fire. "Yes. _Yeah_. That's her. That's…" A hazy vision of Ymir's face swam into his mind, and he recalled her words. _There's a monster inside her head_. Had it truly been her fault? Did it even fucking matter?

The door burst open, and Eren jumped to his feet, his wrist in his hand ready to snap at any given sign of a threat. Rico clicked the safety of her gun, leveling it at the doorway, and Pixis merely took a swig from his flask, smiling tightly. Levi stood against the window, his body rising in defense. And from the hallway, a blurry silhouette came striding into the room, morning sunlight pooling across the their face and shoulders. Eren dropped his arm, and exhaled in disbelief.

"Hange?" he gaped as they paused before Rico, staring at the gun curiously. Their glasses were gleaming as they tilted their head.

"Morning, sunshine," they chirped, turning their attention to Eren. "It's good to see you're—" They grunted in surprise as Eren vaulted over the bed and through his arms around them, burying his face in their shoulder. They smelled familiar, like cigarette smoke and oil and metal shavings, and it was so different from the soap and flowers that plagued his memories that his nausea dissipated, and he felt like sobbing into their shoulder. He had not been so glad to see Hange in a very long time, and he was so thankful for their presence that it ached inside his chest just how much he had missed them.

"Hey…" Hange smoothed his hair back very gently, but Eren refused to look them in the face in fear that he might be crying. He just clutched them tighter, and they rubbed his head affectionately. "It's okay, Eren. What happened?"

Eren couldn't answer. His throat ached, and he felt like a tiny child again, clinging to Hange with a hopeless desperation. Hange pulled him closer when he didn't respond, and they squeezed him reassuringly, resting their chin against the top of his head. He was ashamed of himself for being so weak, but at the same time he couldn't will himself to let go of Hange, because they were such a grand relief, and all thoughts of killing Ymir seemed like a fantasy, a dulling sensation of rage.

"Levi, what the hell did you do to my son?" Hange asked, their tone the same bright, chirping tone they used regularly. But there was a bite behind it, a caveat to Levi and Levi alone.

Eren forced himself to pull away, standing sheepishly with his arms hanging limply at his sides. "Levi didn't do anything," Eren said, his voice thick from the tears he was choking back. "I'm just… glad to see you. Like, really fucking glad." He looked down at his legs, and bent them. His muscles were stiff from sleep. "You got here fast."

"I did?"

"He's been sleeping for awhile," Levi said. "I don't think he knows what time it is."

"I don't even know what time it is," Hange laughed. They rounded on Rico, who still had a gun on them. "You two must be from _The Garrison_. Hi. I'm Hange, and as nice as that gun is, can you get it out of my face?" Hange smiled brightly. "It's super impolite!"

Eren smiled. He was still feeling sorta lightheaded. He realized he hadn't eaten in… a really long time. "Levi," Eren said. "I'm supposed to eat twice every six hours."

"Yeah…?" Eren didn't look at Levi, but he could almost feel the epiphany. "Oh motherfucker."

"What?" Hange looked at Levi sharply. "Excuse me, when was the last time he ate?"

"Uh…"

"You're a parent!" Hange cried, tossing their hands up in disbelief. "You have a child! How can you forget to feed mine when his life depends on it?"

"Uh, he's clearly still alive." Levi sounded bored, but Eren could tell he was embarrassed. "Also, Mikasa is not my daughter."

"You had such a simple job," Hange gasped, their voice heightening. "How could you fuck that up?"

"He was sleeping."

"He's narcoleptic, of _course_ he was sleeping!"

"Jesus fucking Christ," Levi muttered.

"No wonder you're so unstable," Rico stated dryly. Eren sat down on the bed, and it helped soothe his dizziness a little.

"Actually," Eren said weakly, "I think I'm just a really unstable person."

"That's true," Hange said. "But that might partially be my fault. Anyway! Does anyone happen to have food on them?"

"I've got hard liquor," Pixis offered brightly.

"I feel like everyone in this room is trying really hard to make me angry!" Hange laughed. "Don't."

"Seriously," Eren blurted. "Don't."

"Well, whatever," Hange said. "I've got some food on the plane. Assuming everyone is okay? 'Cause you really scared us, you know, not checking in and all."

"Annie stole our phones," Eren said miserably.

"Annie?" Hange looked between Levi and Eren, and they whistled. "Whoa boy! Okay, tell me what happened. Cliff notes version, preferably."

"Well, we ended up at this really cool bone church place," Eren said, staring vacantly ahead. His was dizzy, but he could manage. "I don't remember the name, uh…"

"The Capuchin Crypt, I know it," Hange said. Eren blinked at them in awe. "Eren, I've read _The Innocents Abroad_. And also, I've been to Rome before. Anyways, continue!"

"Ilse Langner paid us a visit while we were there," Levi said. Eren looked at him, and said nothing. _Was it Ilse, though?_ Eren found himself thinking. There was something really weird about that woman. Eren found himself thinking back to the Ymir of his memory, the girl who had been losing her mind at his kitchen table.

"Wait," Hange said. "For real? Ilse Langner? Like, the girl from the institute photographs?" Hange's eyes glittered madly in excitement. "Are you _certain_?"

"She looked a hell of a lot like her," Levi said. "And she definitely was from the facility."

"What did she say?" Hange gasped. "Oh, why didn't you capture her! She'd be so informative!"

"We tried," Levi said. "But she had Annie on a leash."

"Annie beat you?" Hange quirked an eyebrow, glancing between them once again. "_Both_ of you? Ha!" Hange clapped their hands together. "Looks like we underestimated her!"

"Stop laughing, you four eyed shit," Levi snapped. "Annie broke my wings."

"What?" Hange's expression melted into something more somber, and they blinked at Levi curiously. "She broke them? How's that possible?"

"She fucking stomped on them, and they shattered."

"Um, wowie." Hange blinked rapidly, and pushed their hair from their eyes. "Wowie wow. That's not good. Can I see them?"

"Not a chance." Levi spoke with venom in his voice, and Eren bowed his head. He should have been able to do something to stop Annie, but… he'd been too reluctant to fight her. And Levi had paid for that.

"Um," Eren said, speaking up uncertainly, "Levi's back was super inflamed after the fight, so you might actually want to check that out."

"I don't need anyone to—" Levi started.

"Oh, stuff it, Levi," Rico said. "Nobody wants to hear it."

Hange laughed, and they nodded to Rico approvingly. "I like her!" They tilted their head at the woman. "I heard you've got the ability to shift your tangibility." Hange strode up to Rico and grabbed her hands. Eren groaned, and he ducked his head. "Would you mind if I maybe ran some tests to see how your ability works?"

"Um…" Eren watched Rico's hands phase right through Hange's, and the woman took a step back. "Yes, I would mind, actually."

"Ahh!" Hange raised their hands to their face, their eyes wide with awe. "So cool!"

"Hange," Eren said gently. "She's not going anywhere. Can we focus?"

"Aw." Hange turned to face him, and smiled weakly. "I was only joking around."

"Hange," Eren said. "I think Ymir killed my mom."

"What?" Hange's face fell, and they stood for a moment, their shock settling in their features. "_What_?"

"I'm with shitty glasses," Levi said. "What the fuck, Eren?"

"I had a dream about it," Eren said quickly, shaking his head. "But it wasn't a dream! It was a memory, and I'm positive that it was Ymir! She was… talking to herself, really weird-like, totally losing her mind. She said there was a monster in her head, and that she was really sick." Eren's eyes widened, and he stared at his legs in awe and confusion. "And I said that I was too. We talked in my kitchen, and I knew… I knew even back then she was from the institute. It was never a secret. I knew Armin and Mikasa were from the institute even before I was there. But Ymir scared me, because she kept… she kept talkin' to herself… sayin' that she was sorry, that she didn't mean to. That she couldn't get out, that she didn't know how, and that she was so sorry, and not to scream. She said that to _herself_." Eren looked around dazedly, and he shook his head. "I was so scared of her, I ran away, and then… I was in my garden, behind my house, lookin' for my mom, but when the house started smokin' I couldn't move. My legs hurt too much to move, and I just…" Eren swallowed uncertainly. "I watched."

They all stood, watching him with a quiet sort of discomfort. They pitied him, and it made him furious, so furious that he gritted his teeth and peeled his fingernails from his palm so they wouldn't break skin. They pitied him because he was a fucking child. Didn't they know? He wasn't a fucking kid anymore. None of them were.

"Eren—" Hange started softly.

"Don't," he snapped. "I don't wanna hear it. I just want you to believe me. It's true."

Hange stared at him, and they smiled. They nodded, and pulled out their phone. "I believe you," they said.

"I do too," Pixis said. "Though I have no idea who this Ymir is, I'd like to meet her."

"No you don't," Eren said glumly. "She's a fuckin' bitch."

"So are you," Levi said. "But we put up with you."

Eren listened to his molars grind against each other. He was dizzy, and tired, and exhausted, and _hungry_. And not just for food.

No. Eren really did want revenge.

He wanted to kill Ymir Langner.

_I'll make her suffer_, Eren thought, listening as Hange greeted Erwin brightly on the phone. _I'll make her pay_.

* * *

_That's not how you make friends, Eren._

_So here's a break from what's going on with Armin. Some details on backstories. More Ymir mystery bullshit. _

_I'm done with school, so hopefully updates will come at a quicker pace, who knows. I'm actually winding up with the climax of the story with what I'm writing right now, meaning just about everything gets revealed in late twenties. Thank god. If this fic gets too long I might puke. _

_Anyways, goodbye father-son bonding trip. You sucked for all parties involved. Congrats._


	19. i shine, not burn

**luceo non uro**

**Lancaster, Pennsylvania**

_a.d. Idus Octobres, 2677 A.U.C_

The warm yellow glow of her lamp was spilling across her bare shoulders, sending shadows skittering across the expanse of her back, curving in the hollow of her spine as she twisted. Her chin rested on her shoulder as she peered at her reflection, a skinny girl with milky white skin and doe eyes. Her pale hair pooled around her neck in a loose swirl of a bun, and she tilted her head as she stretched her body to its limits, twisting her back further and further in order to get a better look at its bold appearance. Dark lines ran jagged across her shoulder blades, beneath her bra and around the dip of her spine.

The girl in the mirror had a lot of scars she didn't like to show.

"What are those ones from, again?" Ymir asked from the desk. It had been so very nice of Hange to give them all rooms. Christa had never had her own room before. Christa always shared with Ymir, always, and everything, and that was how she kept herself in line. Christa didn't need anything in excess, but here she was, with her own room and a desk and a pretty mirror and pretty clothes. They were pampering Christa here. She hated that.

Christa traced the darkened line that curled around her shoulder. This one was the faintest of that batch of scar tissue. "I got caught in some trellis while playing in the garden," Christa said. That was true. She'd gotten caught, because she wasn't supposed to be there, and she'd gotten caught because she'd been chasing a bunny, and a garden snake had frightened her, and she recalled that they had found her shaking with spasms in a net of lattice, her dress torn and blood pooling across her back.

She had a lot of scars like this. She'd been a very clumsy child.

"Swell," Ymir commented dryly. "You're lucky your face ain't mucked up from all the times you fell on it."

Christa touched her face, which was smooth and lacking any of the blemishes that marred the rest of her tiny body. Sometimes she thought it'd be easier if she wasn't pretty, but she had to suppose people would stare more if she were ugly. It was for the best. Being pretty attracted less attention. It'd be easier to recognize a little girl with an ugly scarred face than a pretty one with no distinguishing features.

She reached over and grabbed a camisole from the top of the mirror, and pulled it on, shielding the scars on her back from view. She was never uncomfortable changing in front of Ymir, because she and Ymir had been together for too long to be shy. It had never been an issue, because they'd never been uncomfortable with one another.

"I want to get a tattoo," Christa declared, whirling on her reflection. The girl in the mirror looked back with a miserable expression. _Stop that_, Christa thought, carefully placing more light into the depths of the girls eyes, and pushing the corners of her lips up very slightly. There. Now she didn't look so said. "Like Levi's. One that will hide my scars."

"You're dotty if you think you could handle a thing like that," Ymir laughed, turning her chair to and fro, her chin resting in her palm. "It'd take forever."

"I'm patient," she said, tugging her hair from its messy bun and letting it spill across her shoulders. "And you know I have a high tolerance for pain. I could do it."

"Why ruin such a pretty sight, though?" Ymir asked, her eyes following Christa as she pulled a long purple shirt on over her camisole and her leggings, a pretty blouse that was loose enough to cover any semblance of breasts she had, forcing her to appear as she truly was— flat chested and young. She smoothed out the creases in the fabric, and frowned at herself in the mirror. _Why are you so tiny?_ Christa asked herself bitterly. _You look like you haven't aged in years_. She tore her gaze away from her reflection, and looked to Ymir.

"Scars aren't pretty," she said, her brow furrowing.

"They are on you," Ymir replied. Christa turned away from Ymir, not wanting her to see how irritated her words had made her. She busied herself with trying to find that blue cardigan she'd received late last week when Hange had asked her to pick out fifteen of her favorite things from a catalogue. Christa really didn't like being doted on. She really, really didn't like it. It made her feel selfish.

But the cardigan was soft, and Christa couldn't help but smile when she put it on. This was her life. Hating things she really liked, and loving things she really despised. What a wretched way to live.

Ymir seemed to have caught on, because she pushed off the desk, the chair rolling across the hard wood. "What would you get a tattoo of, anyhow?" she asked, spinning in place.

"I don't know…" Christa pulled on a pair of sturdy brown boots, buckling them carefully. She tugged up her hair into a high ponytail, tying it off quickly. "Roses, maybe."

"Roses?" Ymir wrinkled her nose. "_Por que_?"

"I don't know," Christa repeated. "I just like roses." She rocked on her feet, testing her boots, and she sighed. This was going to be a long night. "You need to get dressed, Ymir. This was your idea."

"Yeah, yeah…" Ymir was sitting, grinning in her sweats. "You're awful fascinating to watch, though."

Christa sighed, pushing past her friend and opening the door. "Please go get dressed," she said, waiting at the door for Ymir to get up and leave. The girl groaned, and she got up, kicking the chair back to the desk. "And be quiet too. Everyone's sleeping."

"I doubt that," Ymir chirped as she passed by, stretching her arms above her head. "Gosh, it's not even that late."

"It's two in the morning," Christa murmured.

"Yes, exactly."

She couldn't help but smile a little as she pushed Ymir toward her bedroom door. "Go on," Christa grunted into Ymir's spine, finding that the girl had stopped in order to tease her. "I'm not kidding!"

"You're not even tryin' to get me to move," Ymir yawned. Christa flushed, and stopped, allowing Ymir to nearly topple from the lack of balance. "Yeow! What're you—?"

"Go," Christa said firmly, stamping her foot. She felt like a child sometimes, talking to Ymir, but that was usually how Ymir got to listening to her. It amused her. And it got her to do what Christa told her to. So Ymir laughed, and went into her room, and Christa stood in the hall, staring vacantly ahead of her. Sometimes Christa could not tell if Ymir could truly see right through her, or if she just pretended like she knew how much effort was put into maintaining the persona everyone knew and loved.

Christa sighed again. They'd barely been home a few hours, and already she was leaving again. She didn't want to, but Ymir had been persuasive, and it was a curious thing, the institute. Christa had only gotten a glimpse of it when she'd escaped. She wanted to know. She needed to know. What had been done to her, anyway? So they would be off, in just a few minutes, and they would leave everyone to wonder where they had gone. She had to wonder if Eren was okay, and Levi, but she wasn't so worried about them as she was for the boy who had collapsed in Connie's bathroom.

She crept carefully down the hall, and stood outside Armin's door for a few moments. She had to debate her options here. She could check on him, but if he woke up, what would she do? And if he was already awake? But she was so curious, and it was hard to pass up to chance to make sure he was breathing. So she pushed open his door, and stood startled in the entryway when he whirled around to face her.

He looked a little like a corpse, standing in the dark with his pale hair framing glazed eyes, and there was something very off about the way he smiled at her, his dead eyes suddenly glinting. He was at his desk, and she could see his face only in the glow of his laptop screen.

"Christa," he said. "What are you doing?"

"I…" Christa swallowed uncertainly, and shot a glance down the hall at Ymir's door. "I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay. Are you?"

"I'm fine," he said calmly, his voice off as well. She squinted at him, and she wished his aura were available to her. There was something eerie about this room. She didn't like it. Armin was just… strange, like something in a dream pulled into reality, a nightmare smiling in the dark. "Are you?"

"What?" Christa was utterly taken aback by him, and she shook her head furiously. "Of course I am!"

"Sorry," he said weakly. "You just seem tired. Are you going somewhere?"

"No, I…" Christa looked down at her cardigan and her boots, and she closed her eyes. There was no use lying, she supposed. She turned on his light, and he leaned back against his desk as she moved into his room. It was a nice room, a little messy from papers strewn across the floor, but otherwise orderly. His bed was strange, just like him, and she stared at it. She felt a little lightheaded in here, and she didn't know why. "You really shouldn't be up."

"I could say the same to you," he said, sounding amused. She threw a glance at him, and frowned.

"I meant because you're sick," she said. "But yes, you're right. I really shouldn't be up."

"You're sneaking out, aren't you?" He smiled as she jumped, and he shook his head. "Oh, I won't tell. That'd be rude. You're free to do as you like, I can't stop you. But you should be careful. It's not a kind world out there."

"I'll be fine," Christa said gently. "But thank you for your concern. I think you should keep some of it for yourself, though."

"That'd be so selfish of me, though," Armin argued, blinking confusedly. Christa stared at him, at his face and dead, glinting eyes, and her stomach twisted nervously. _Something is wrong here,_ she thought. _Something's not right with him_. She didn't need to see his aura to know that there was something messing with Armin. She felt as though she wasn't truly seeing him, that she was seeing a ghost, or a reflection. It was a little frightening.

"It's not selfish to take care of yourself," she argued.

"Ah…" He shrugged, and looked down. "Maybe. So where are you and Ymir going?"

She was surprised. She laughed nervously, and he laughed too, and she realized they were both forcing themselves to laugh over something that was not funny, because they were both entirely aware of the awkward situation they were in. She tried to put on a happy face, and his smile reflected hers eerily, and she felt terrified for this oddity. What was wrong here, again? Her mind felt foggy.

"We're going to the institute," she said quietly. "Please don't tell."

"I won't," he said. "Don't worry. May I ask why?"

"Oh…" Christa sighed. She walked up to his desk, glancing over his papers, wondering if he'd stop her. There were a lot of words in different languages, and in gibberish. She noticed that his handwriting was erratic, and he often trailed off into scribbles. "Well, we're both curious about different things, I suppose. We don't remember much about the institute."

"No one really does," he told her. He was smiling the same empty smile as her, and they watched each other. "But I think that's for the best, don't you? Who would want to remember?"

"I guess you're right," she sighed, sifting through the piles of papers. "But I'm curious. You are too, aren't you?"

"Of course," he said smoothly.

Christa nodded. She was still sifting through the papers on his desk, too curious and too bold, and she waited for him to try and stop her. She was begging for him to. But he didn't and so she pushed through the papers, noting the names repeated over and over, the lists and the questions that made no sense, and it was all absolute nonsense to her. A glint of color amongst a sea of white and smudges of black caught her eye. She tugged a paper from the wreckage, a little painting of a vase with faint red roses curling in diluted color. It was pretty, if not a little juvenile, and she smiled at it.

"Pretty," she said, careful to hold the painting by the corners. Armin tilted his head to peer at the painting. "Did you do it?"

"Uh…" Armin blinked, and nodded slowly. "Yes. It's… oh, just something silly, I guess."

Christa felt that he was withholding a lot of things, emotions and thoughts and information that he would not allow to break past the surface of his hazy mask. She bit her lower lip, and she tried to smile, but she wasn't sure how it really looked. She was growing uncomfortable with this room. Not Armin, not really, just… the atmosphere that surrounded him was stifling, and she was feeling the incredible weight of it.

"I love roses," she said setting the painting down.

"They're a beautiful flower," he said, not looking at her. "Almost… nostalgic, don't you think?"

She found she could not answer. Her body stiffened at the thought, at the memories surfacing amongst the clutter of her brain, and she exhaled shakily. "Oh, yes," she said faintly. She forced herself to turn from him, shaken up by the sweet memories of dashing through the library, pulling books from shelves and building herself a throne of them. _You've gone and made yourself a kingdom, princess!_ She shuddered at the voice that filled her head and her heart, and she recalled roses, so many roses, all over the house and in the garden. She remembered chasing a bunny into the garden full of them, and getting caught in lattice. She remembered the feeling of metal clawing at her back, tearing through the fabric of her dress like thorns, and she remembered lying in a bed of twisted metal and trampled roses and bloodstained shreds of a pale purple dress.

"I should go," she said quietly.

"Probably."

She eyed him, and she found that she did not understand him. He smiled, and it was empty. He stared, and it was hollow. He was not a real boy, just as she was not a real girl. They were both puppets staring each other down, hoping the other would cut their strings. But she would not bend for something so trifling. She was not weak, and neither was the girl in the mirror who had built this all up, this entire world to love and hate her. She would not bend for some boy who smiled like her and painted roses that looked pretty, pretty, like roses from a fairy tale, like for a princess who'd gone asleep too many years ago and had never woken up.

As she moved toward the door, he stopped her with a soft caveat.

"Don't trust Ymir."

She turned on him in an instant, her eyes flashing and her brow furrowing. "Excuse me?" she asked dully. "What do you mean?"

And he smiled. Vacant, innocent, like a little boy lost and sickly, and she thought he looked almost familiar then. "I just mean," he said, "that she's not really who she says she is."

_Neither am I,_ Christa thought, her heart sinking low into her chest. _So why should that matter?_

"She's a good person," she said firmly. "I don't care if she's not who I think, because I know her. I know her a lot better than I know you. So please, don't give me any of that. She's just as trustworthy as you are, if not more." Christa turned on her heel sharply, gritting her teeth. "At least Ymir talks to me straight. You speak in riddles."

"That might be true," he said. "But she's still a murderer."

Christa stood before the door, and she wondered why that word did not shock her so much as it should have. _Well_, she thought numbly, _it looks like we're not so different at all_. She pulled open Armin's door, and she left him to wallow in his darkness and his riddles and his vase of roses. She had no use for a masked boy with a sick brain.

She walked into Ymir's room, and grabbed her jacket from the floor outside her door, tossing it at her. She was just pulling on her sneakers, and she blinked. "Hey, what—?"

"Can we go?" Christa felt like she was about to break from the pressure of this place, and of the memories pushing at her brain. They weren't poor Christa's, either, which made it even worse. "I'm getting tired."

Ymir quirked an eyebrow, and she shrugged. "Absolutely, _chica_."

They stole a motorcycle from Hange's lab. It wasn't like it was the first time they'd done this, and it was fairly more legal this time around than it usually was. At least they knew Hange wouldn't care, even if they trashed it. It made Christa feel marginally less guilty for the crime. Ymir seemed to be enjoying every minute of this, and she bopped a helmet onto Christa's head and laughed rather obnoxiously. She was having fun, which was nice to see, but Christa was miserable.

She didn't want Ymir to know that, though.

Christa could see Ymir's aura, of course, the gold of it that twisted and pulsated, a gracious sign that she was alive and healthy. Particles of light bounced off the aura, never obscuring a person's appearance, but rather accentuating every feature and every flaw. It was a beauty, and it was a burden, and she watched the aura skitter around her as she pressed her face into Ymir's back. The motorcycle revved, and Christa held Ymir tighter, and thought about moving the particles, thought about what she could do.

The truth was, she was afraid to experiment.

It was difficult to accept the range of her own power, so she would rather just ignore it. It did no harm, really. The basic assumption was that she was a healer, and even when she tried to make the correction, no one bothered listening to her. Perhaps they thought her too sweet to be dangerous. Well, she'd be a liar if she said that wasn't her intention. She didn't want people to know the horror of what she was. Father Nick had known, though.

She'd trusted him because he had recognized her, and she thought maybe she could repent, jus a little. It hadn't even been much of a kidnapping on his part. She'd gone with him to tell him her sins, but he'd meant to take her back to a hell in the guise of a paradise. She didn't want that. She wanted to be free of it. But she couldn't be, not with all the memories swirling in her brain, not with the ugly truth of who she was buried just beneath the pretty surface. She wasn't very good at hiding it. Armin had seen through her earlier. Rude, he had called her. Christa wasn't rude.

But Historia was.

It was so hard to distinguish these two girls nowadays, they were beginning to blur together. Christa just wanted Historia to go away, because nothing good came from her. She was a lonely, angry, crybaby of a girl, and selfish to boot. Historia had secrets, had guilt and pain that she drowned herself in, and Christa was a clean slate that was being sullied by sharing the same despicable face. Christa was growing tired of this struggle. She'd wipe her memory clean if it meant she could be free of Historia Reiss for good.

The particles of Ymir's aura, glittering and golden, tickled Christa's nose as she buried her face into her spine. They caught in the strands of her hair, and slipped against her skin, warm and glowing brightly. Auras were nice to be near, because they were a natural warmth that were so intimate and special, and each feeling was unique. Ymir's aura felt soft and warm, while others, like Levi or Annie, had auras so tough Christa bounced off the particles, finding them barely malleable.

"Armin told me not to trust you," Christa said when they stopped at a gas station. She leaned against the motorcycle, her helmet cupped in her tiny hands. She stared at it, and considered asking Ymir if she could drive. She knew how, but Ymir always liked to do it, because she was more alert, and Christa was so tiny they'd get pulled over.

Ymir laughed heartily, a trickle of warmth in the bite of October air. It was dark, and the gas station was deserted. Christa watched her, a dark faced girl with a sandstorm of freckles and black eyes and twisted brown hair, white teeth gleaming in the lamplight, and she gave a mighty shrug. She was dressed in fatigues, her body slumped and lazy.

"Did he?" she asked, rolling her eyes. "Well. Best not trust Armin then, hm?"

"But I like Armin," Christa sighed. "He's nice."

"He's nice to you, you mean." Ymir stared at her expectantly, and then she shook her head. "He's just like you, you know. Sweet to look at, not so sweet under the surface. You should really know better by now, _cari__ñ__o_."

It was disheartening when Ymir pointed out Christa's flaws. Everything in her wanted to snap, to scream that it wasn't her fault that she had to share a face with some pitiless girl who didn't even exist anymore. She sighed, and she stared at the helmet in her hands. It wasn't fair. She tried and tried, but still there was no masking the truth. Why was it so hard to just be the nice little girl everyone expected her to be?

"He's not wrong to suspect you, though," she murmured. "You're not the nicest person…"

"Neither are you." Ymir scoffed, and Christa bit her tongue. She stared ahead of her, and wondered why this was always so hard. Her heart hurt. "I just don't hide how rotten I am."

"No," Christa said. "You hide how good you are."

"Dry up, doll."

Christa pressed her lips thinly together, and she wondered how different she would be if Ymir had not shaped her life post-institute. She wondered what she would be like if she hadn't fallen down a flight of stairs, and been put to sleep for years. She stared into the night around her, and wished she could just erase all this wondering. It made her sick of her own head.

Ymir, of course, was only mean because she hated to coddle people. She was the only one who told Christa like it was. Christa was mean, and she was faking it, and Ymir kept her constantly on her toes with these facts. It allowed her to never get comfortable in her own skin. Ymir was nice like that.

"I want to drive," Christa declared when they were finished up at the gas station. Ymir gave her a once over, and she smiled very sweetly.

"No, love," she said. "You want to die."

Christa was a little numb as she put her helmet back on. She had no retort. They were on the road again, and Christa was still frustratingly put off by Ymir's words. Why did she always have that effect, anyway? All she had to do was say one stupid thing, and suddenly Christa had to reevaluate every little action. She wanted to defend herself, but how could she? Ymir was only ever honest with Christa, at least when it regarded Christa herself.

As they continued on their journey, Christa thought back to Armin. He was such a strange boy. Nice, but utterly unnerving, and she was still a little haunted by the idea that he knew who she was. Historia, he had called her. As though it was nothing! And he meant nothing to her, he was just a boy from the institute! A nobody! And he knew her.

Perhaps Ymir was right. Perhaps she better not trust him.

It wasn't the nice thing to do, but it was the smart thing. Christa didn't want to be stuck in circulating hatred, and she didn't want to be that scared little girl ever again. It was impossible for her to be anything other than the person she was now, the strong girl, the kind girl, the girl who smiles and speaks softly and knows her place.

_I'm terrible_, she thought in awe of herself. _I am a terrible person_.

Christa and Historia had that in common, at least.

Ymir had once told her that she had a split personality. Christa had responded that she only had one personality, and two names to share it. She knew that she was one person with two names, and that Historia wasn't a different personality, just the girl who she tried to bury under good memories and smiles too big. Christa didn't have a past, so naturally her past was Historia's. They both had the same scars.

It began to rain around the time Christa began to fall asleep against Ymir's back, the humming warmth of her aura bathing her in comfort. The patter of raindrops on her helmet jolted her awake, and it made her a little moody. It was nice to be alone with Ymir again. It didn't happen very often anymore, and Ymir's aura was so familiar, so distinct, so warm and bright. It molded itself around Christa out of affection for her. It knew her, and loved her, and it warmed her skin and stuck to her eyes like miniature stars.

Auras weren't visible all the time. Christa could tune them out, but she liked to be able to see them. It was a comfort to know if someone was doing well. So when they passed by a train of flashing lights, police cars and ambulances parked on the side of the express way, Christa lurched at the opportunity, her eyes peeled for auras drifting above the whirling lights. She spotted the faintness of one, graying dust scattering across the chilly night air. Golden flakes were turning to ash, and she felt it in her heart.

"Not a chance, lovely girl," Ymir told her.

"Pull over," Christa said, readjusting her grip as they moved farther from the crash site. She twisted her body, following the lights with her keen eyes. Ymir did not listen. She kept going. "Ymir, pull over!"

"We can't," Ymir responded sharply. "We'll never get through the police and paramedics, _chica_, you're wasting your— _ay dios mio_!" Ymir's cry was a distant screech in Christa's ears as she carefully shifted her footing so she was no longer straddling the motorcycle, rain making the leather seat slick and difficult to cling to. Christa ducked Ymir's arm and pushed off, her body flying into the black, glistening road.

Christa was impulsive. She was a foolish little girl, a rash and moronic and full of bitter self-loathing for reasons she couldn't even begin to fathom. She didn't scream when her shoulder hit the pavement, pain shooting stars into her eyes, crushing her lungs and forcing her to bite her tongue so hard blood pooled inside her mouth. She skidded across the wet road, her helmet cracking into the ground and her head rattling inside it, her body folding over itself in its rolling mad trip across the expanse of the wide deserted road. Rain soaked up her blood, and she laid for a moment, listening to it laugh in her ears, beating at her torn up body, wet and heavy against her awkward limbs.

She sat up, and she dusted off her cardigan. The entire right sleeve was moist from the rain and the road, and there was an irritatingly large tear in it. Christa supposed it was a price she had to pay. She pushed herself to her feet, ignoring the sound of the motorcycle that skidded to a stop a few yards up the road, and she walked toward the bleary swirl of red and blue lights beating through the smooth mist of rain.

She was thankful for the helmet as she slipped between two parked police cars. There had been only one car in this accident, a small convertible that had skidded off the road and flipped into the concrete bank wall. The man in the car was laying on a gurney, and his aura was a pulsating beat of gold crumpling into ash. A sad fading glow blowing into Christa's sad glistening eyes, and she stood for a moment in the midst of the beating lights and the beating rain and the ash of a man's ending life blowing around her.

"Hey."

Christa walked between two policemen. One tried to catch her arm, but she ducked it easily, too small and too quick. She was sprinting now, her boots crashing against the rain battered road.

"Hey!"

Christa stole little ashes from the air, reaching out to them and touching them, her skin turning gray to gold in a blinking, blistering flash of heat. Gold flecks bloomed across the miserable air, heating the chilly night and giving it a rich life that had been sapped from it by the dreary rain. She caught ashes in her palms, caught them on her skin, none of them visible to the ordinary eye, and she flitted between them excitedly.

She loved this. It was exhilarating, having someone's life in her hands, bending it to her twisted will and making it spark across her skin. She felt this man's presence like she felt the rain, only tracks of fire were streaming across her skin instead of wet drops. She was winning against death, and that was because life was hers to make or break. She was drenched in an aura, deathly pale and growing stronger with every touch of her thoughts to live, live, _live_!

Live!

She ran through the bursting golden light, her arms extended toward the man on the gurney. No one was stopping her. The ashes had turned to gold. Everyone could see that now. Light radiated from her. She was glowing with this aura, bending it to her will. She was life, and she was death, and she was satisfied with this burning, bursting, and she was blowing gold dust into the air, molding it to her finger tips and sending it scattering.

**Live!**

She watched the man on the gurney gasp.

Christa was grinning beneath her helmet, and she felt lightheaded and giddy, her body alight with a strange, breathless high of energy. She could bounce and dance and sing and shriek and run and laugh and cry, she was so incredibly happy and devastated by this rush of life and death swirling inside her tiny bones. _Live, live, live_, her entire self seemed to cry out all at once, bursts and bubbles and blistering heat.

Light bloomed across the sky, crashing across the expanse of the high way, and blinding everyone around her. Before it faded, she found herself being grabbed and dragged away. She was laughing into Ymir's shoulder as they ran into the gold-flecked rain. She was blinded by her own beauty and grace. She laughed, and grabbed Ymir's hands, a little tipsy on her feet.

"I'm so happy," Christa gasped, squeezing Ymir's dark hands. Gold swam inside Christa's eyes.

"You're drunk on power," Ymir hissed at her, shoving her at the motorcycle. Christa giggled, and wished Ymir could see it too, the gold and the gray and the sweet heat of it all pouring into Christa's blood. "You let yourself get drunk on power, you _peque__ñ__a tonta_!"

Christa chose not to respond, because Ymir simply didn't understand the thrill. It was so nice to just let the power seep into her bones and become her for once. It was so nice, because usually she just blocked it out, shoved it away, forced it to keep out of her eyes and out of her heart, but now she was laughing sick in this golden life. She wanted that light to soak through her muscles and glaze her bones and turn her ugly heart a brilliant blissful gold, bright bursting blinking gold to turn her into something pretty on the inside too.

"Let's just go," Ymir sighed, nudging her onto the bike. Christa obeyed with dazed wonder to her movements. She was so enthralled by her own power, and it was so good to let herself go again, just be that golden thing she'd hid herself from years and years ago because it was too harsh to look at something so beautiful.

When they were far enough away from the crash, and from the star struck policemen and paramedics, Ymir pulled over and yanked Christa off the bike. She tore the helmet from Christa's head, and looked into her eyes. Ymir had such pretty eyes, brown and dark like beautiful blackened chocolate, so warm and sweet. They'd look prettier in the glow of Ymir's aura. Christa blinked once, watching the particles rush into her visibility, and she laughed excitedly.

"Stop that!" Ymir smacked Christa over the head. Hard. Gold fell from Christa's eyes, shimmering and shrieking in shock. Life was blinding her. She needed to wake up. "I see the gold in your eyes, I know you're soaking it all up! And I know it'll hurt you. Too much power does that, _cari__ñ__o_."

"But it's so…" Christa's lower lips trembled as she blinked, and gold tears swam inside her eyes. "It's so pretty, Ymir…"

"It's only pretty," Ymir said, lifting Christa's chin with the knuckle of her forefinger, "because you made it so, love."

"Is that so bad?" Christa was melting. The gold was melting across her cheeks, glowing against the frigid, rainy, wind kissed dawn. "I only ever feel right when it's gold and silver! Why can't I feel like this all the time?"

"Because it's _not_ right," Ymir reminded calmly, her chocolate eyes melting with the gold. It was hot across Christa's flushed cheeks. She didn't feel so much like Christa right now. Christa was a good girl who never got caught up with the luxuries of life. Historia was always drunk with power and sick with grief. _I think I've lost myself here_, Christa thought miserably, smiling through tears of gold. _Or, I guess, I've just found that terrible little girl again_.

Historia had never left. She was the truest part of Christa, and she was the worst of her, the greedy, tearful, desperate part that wanted love and life and a golden heart.

And miserable Christa was the tool she'd used to attain that.

"I'm sorry, Ymir," she said distantly, swaying against the wind. "I forgot. I forgot how good it feels to just soak it all in."

"It's okay," Ymir said. "But remember that it'll do no one any good if you take life. Remember?"

Christa shuddered against Ymir's touch. "Yes," she whispered, turning her face away. She wiped at her tears, and saw that they weren't so gold after all. Not anymore.

"Try to hold back next time you do any healin', yeah, doll?"

"Yeah." Christa nodded, though it made her head spin to do so. She wanted that life so bad… and, of course, she had made that man's aura stronger, but what if she had decided she wanted it a different way? _No_, Christa thought firmly, tearing herself out of the gilded fog that had entrapped her faint heart. _Absolutely not._

"Thanks, Ymir," she said, resting her head against the tall girl's shoulder. "Next time I do that, can you… um…" She bit her lip as she felt Ymir's stare. "Can you slap me? That'll work better."

"Sure, love." Ymir stared at her with her dark, freckled face glistening in from residual rain, the sky breaking gray upon the sun's arrival up above them. "Whatever you want."

"You can punch me too," Christa said. "Kick me. Spit at me. Yell. Don't coddle me when I get like that, Ymir, it won't help me."

"Sure, love," Ymir repeated. She looked up at the sky, and rain pattered against her skin, slipping and catching in her thick eyelashes.

"How do you control yours?" she asked eagerly, staring up at her friend. "You do it so well, like it's nothing, but it's fire! How can you handle all of that heat and power at once?"

"Practice," Ymir said, offering out Christa's helmet to her. "Trial and error. I've had much more time to master my abilities than you, dollface, so don't think I'm somethin' special. It's not so easy as just wishin' the power be controlled."

"But you're so good at it," Christa mumbled. Ymir bopped the helmet back onto her head, and she laughed.

"_Chica_, none of us are any good at it," she snorted. "We're all just playin' at bein' in control, when in all honesty, we're all quaking in our boots in terror of what we can really do."

"Oh…" Christa sighed, her breath fogging up the helmet. Oh, this was all so much. Christa just wanted to be normal, to be a sweet and normal girl who didn't have to worry about getting drunk on saving, or tripping on power. It was so distressing to be this thing, this monster, this pretty little omen. She despised herself for her weakness, but she loved herself for her power. She hated her power for its horror, and she loved it for its grace. She was a walking contradiction, a lovely hatred burning in her blood, a lively death bouncing in her bones.

She was sick of this game. She wanted answers to this disgusting being that she knew she was.

They stopped for breakfast after another half an hour on the road. Christa wrung out her hair, and Ymir ordered them two coffees and a muffin to share at a dingy twenty-four hour diner somewhere in northern Pennsylvania. Rain trickled down the glass of the windows, trailing sadly in the grayish morning sunlight. She was utterly exhausted, and but she was used to this constant running, this road life that had been their way for years. She couldn't say it was a welcomed familiarity, but she accepted it all the same.

"Drink up," Ymir sang, "my terror."

Christa stared glumly into the mug of coffee. "I don't miss this," she admitted. "I like being settled in one place. I like having a home."

"Do I look like I care?" Ymir plopped down in the booth across from her, her narrowed eyes becoming dimmer as she stared. "You're still here, yeah? You still love me enough to follow me wherever the hell I so choose." Ymir chuckled, and rolled her eyes. "Ha, you're a mess."

Christa stared at her, her fingers closing irritably around the mug. She hoped Ymir could sense her irritation. She found herself growing tired of this charade. "Do I look like I care?" she echoed Ymir dully.

The girl grinned. "What did that trip do to you?" she asked, peering closely at Christa's face. "Don't tell me you're really accepting it?"

"Accepting what?" Christa blinked confusedly as she took a sip of her coffee. Black and bitter, it ran scalding down her throat. She was comforted by it.

"Your undeniable unpleasantness," Ymir chirped.

"I'm not unpleasant," she squeaked into her coffee, raising her eyes to Ymir in alarm. Ymir laughed. "I'm not! _You're_ unpleasant, not me!"

"Just let the bitch become you," Ymir cooed. "It feels so good, like loosin' a great ol' load all at once."

"Shut up, Ymir," Christa sighed.

Ymir settled back in her booth, a wide smirk stretching on her thin lips, and her dimples caved into her cheeks. She blew a kiss. "Love you," she said.

"Love someone else," Christa found herself murmuring.

"What was that, love?"

Christa bit her tongue, and she took a swig of her coffee, relishing in how incredibly acrid it was. She was lucky to have Ymir, really, but sometimes the girl could get out of hand with her teasing. She was so careless, so needlessly cruel, and yet she was the only honest person Christa knew. She was a constant reminder that the girl in the mirror was not Christa Lenz, and she was the weight that held Christa to the ground. She was mean and nasty, but she was also vividly self-aware, and terribly clever.

Ymir knew exactly what she was doing when she was being a monstrous bitch. And she loved every moment of it.

"What were you and Jean talking about yesterday?" Christa asked suddenly, sickeningly satisfied at how startled Ymir became. "At Marco's grave?"

"Uh…" Ymir shrugged, and popped a bit of muffin into her mouth. She spoke while she chewed. "Honestly? Marco. The damn fella couldn' let him go."

"Marco only just died, Ymir," Christa said. "Give it time."

"Jean doesn't need time," Ymir said. "He needs to forget that it ever even happened."

"That's a tough thing for anyone to do," Christa sighed. "And unfair. I wouldn't want to forget you, if you died suddenly." _Not that I'd let you_, Christa thought, tearing at the fluffy innards of the muffin between them.

"I'm not saying he should forget Marco, exactly," Ymir said, adding a sugar to her coffee, and then tossing back the glass . "I'm just sayin' it'd be awful sad if he was hung up on that dumb boy forever. No reason for that. Move on quick, that's what I say. Death ain't so special."

"You're terrible," Christa said, smiling wanly.

"I'm practical," Ymir responded brightly. She took a swig of coffee, and laughed. "Perfectly practical. That's me."

Christa laughed in disbelief, and kicked Ymir under the table. "Get out," Christa gasped. "You're the worst!" Ymir laughed harder, and they both laughed and giggled and kicked at each other until the subject changed, and they weren't laughing anymore. But it was a good start to the day, and Christa was feeling refreshed and less drunk on some unfathomable force, so it was good. They were good.

Christa felt good.

It was strange to feel good.

They made it to Lancaster later that morning. The ground was soft and wet, mud sucking at her boots as they moved through an open field, skimming dewy grass and dodging great tarns of puddles. The sky was dismally gray, and the rain had stopped for a little bit. The air was thick with acidity, the humid taste of rain tinged to every breath inhaled and exhaled. It was dizzying, almost, but mostly a bother. The tear in Christa's sleeve had grown worse, and the pale blue fabric was stained a faint rusty brown color. Mud.

The institute looked nothing like Christa had imagined. She just always had this picture of a sort of castle, an ominous place to run away from, with turrets and spires. This was just a cavernous old building. Nothing special, except perhaps the gaping hole in the side of its face, charred beyond belief and whittled away by weather and wildlife. They ducked in through that opening, and it seemed to them that the place had become some inhabited by woodland creatures since their mass exodus five years before.

"I don't remember any of this," Christa said, walking easily beneath a fallen beam. Ymir had to duck. "Do you?"

"Not really." They both had flashlights, and the stream of white against the thick streams of dust and shadow was a little disconcerting. "But I spent almost all my time here in a pod, so…"

"I spent all mine in a bed." Christa lifted her head toward the ceiling, noticing the cracks and fissures lining them, spreading into the walls and leading to thick holes in the foundation, or yawning burns in the once pale walls. "We're so boring."

"Aw." Ymir flung her arm around Christa's shoulder and squeezed it tight. "Don't say that. We're swell."

"I just wish we could understand what the others went through," she whispered, glancing around the darkened corridor they had landed themselves in. The air was thick and dry, and dust clung to every surface, particles dancing in the block of white light that gleamed from her flashlight. Everywhere she moved the beam, there was less to see. These passages were cramped, and she pushed her light through to the darkened halls, but she only ever found that they seemed endlessly black.

Christa imagined, vaguely anxious and enthralled, a person standing in that blackness, a person watching in the shadowy labyrinth of the institute's halls. She imagined, and it made her smile. Goosebumps prickled her arms and she smiled wider. She loved this. It was thrilling, and it was suspenseful, and she wanted to run through these empty, haunted halls and shriek in the ghosts' ears. She wanted them to fear _her_.

She had too much fun in her own head. Her imagination got her nowhere. They were both still pretty lost, and it was dark, and musty, and hard to breathe. Christa led her flashlight around vaguely. She thought this hall might look a little familiar, but what did she know? Ymir was twisting her way around, her flashlight stuck to the walls. She was looking for something specific. Christa was just along for the ride. _I wonder what my old room looks like_, she thought. She'd never had the chance to look at it. Ymir had stolen her away before she got a good look around. She'd awoken to it, to fire and screams, and she hadn't stuck around to look at her room.

"Here we go," Ymir murmured. She stopped before an uneven, fist-shaped hole in the wall. "I know where we are."

"Amazing," Christa gasped. "How?"

"Levi punched the wall trying to tackle me," Ymir said brightly. "Ain't he a joy?"

"He's…" Christa smiled tightly. "Well, no, joy isn't the word I would use."

"Say it," Ymir whispered. "Say he's an asshole."

"You're an asshole, Ymir," Christa said gently.

Ymir gave a great, enthusiastic laugh, and she kissed the top of Christa's head and said nothing more. This was the way with them. Quick, sweet insults, bright affectionate kicks and kisses. They were not the kindest people, that was true. Christa hated it, but it was the truth she knew well, the truth that was Historia Reiss. They were odd people when they acted normally.

When Ymir stopped before the door of her old room, so did Christa. She stood, staring into it, and she then turned her eyes to the darkness. _A person could be out there_, Christa thought. _Watching me_. It didn't scare her. It was an exciting thought. Her heart was beginning to thud in her chest, a sign of anticipation. She wanted to find out. She wanted to know. She wanted to seek before she was sought.

"I think I can find my way to my room from here," Christa found herself saying, pushing forward into the great, yawning darkness. "I'll meet you back here in a few."

"What?" Ymir hung back in the darkened doorframe of her old room. "Don't be stupid. You'll get lost."

"I'm not stupid," Christa said firmly, moving forward with her flashlight raised to beat at the blackness clinging to the eerie halls. Every so often she could catch little crags in the walls or burned out paneling. "You came here for your reasons. Let me go find mine."

"Fool," Ymir whistled at her. Christa waved in response, her boots squeaking against the dusty tile. "Go on, then, love! Get lost!"

"I will!" Christa cried, swallowing her laughter and raising her chin to the thickening darkness. "I'll have an adventure!"

"I hope you trip on a brick!" Ymir cackled.

Christa turned a corner abruptly, and walked on. She didn't know where she was going, really. The halls looked all the same, just a stretching mass of cracked white paint running through the darkness. She enjoyed this immensely, not knowing where she was going or if she'd get lost in this dank, dark, despicable place. She felt so alive, in fact, pushing through the maze of it, that she was beginning to find comfort in the dilapidated walls and crumbling ceiling.

She hummed idly. Ymir would find her, of course, if she did get lost. But she wasn't lost right now. She was simply enjoying the stifling air and the creeping at her spine. She was enjoying this mystery, this place of terror that held her terror of her past. Yes, she loved it because it was dead, and death could not hurt her. She was glad for this maze. She belonged in it.

She remembered being a little girl, not any smaller than she was now, and running through this very same hall. See, there was even that streak of scorched wall from where the fire had reached! Yes, she'd been here before, she was sure of it! Christa stood for a moment, standing in the creeping, stirring darkness. She felt it watching her, and she was intrigued. It couldn't hurt her. She wasn't scared.

Christa twirled her flashlight, watching the beam bounce off the scorched up walls, and she smiled at the crumbling, blackened bones of the place that had once imprisoned her. How strange now, to be free, and not be free, and standing wishing that life would flood back into these walls, water leak from the ceiling and heal this charred up place. It was so sad, and yet she was smiling and happy, against all odds.

She didn't know how she found her room, but she knew it was hers. She recognized the positioning of a bed, beside a great canvas of a faux window. A heart monitor was resting in eternal slumber, dusty and dull in the gleam of her flashlight. The sheets of her bed had been kicked back by a younger girl with a different name. They were still in the same disgruntled position. The mattress was dusty and yellowed from disuse, but there was an imprint of a tiny body in its soft exterior. Christa drew her light across it, wondering why it looked so sad, and why she felt so sad looking at it. Her emotions were not cooperating.

Christa smiled at the fake window. _Papa_, she thought sadly. _You put me in a dungeon. No need to disguise it as a tower_. She focused her attention on the rest of the wall. There were pictures. Various pictures lining the dusty, vaguely blackened surface. Soot clung to surface of them, faces gauzy from age. Christa edged closer to them, lighting them up with a beam of light, and smiling vaguely.

There was a picture of her with her father. And another. And another. They were all of her and her father, him holding her, tickling her, kissing her little golden head. Christa wiped at the dust that hid her old, smiling face. Historia Reiss had been such a happy child. And then her father had betrayed her. Between the pictures were sad, wilting paintings. Christa smiled at them too, because they were just as sad and odd to see as the photographs of her and her father. The paintings were water color, it seemed, vague strokes glowing faintly against gray paper, yellowing with time. She pressed her fingers to a painting of roses in a vase, and she tilted her head curiously.

"Where on earth did you come from?" she whispered to the painting. It was a sloppy painting. A child must have done it.

There was a signature scrawled on the lower left hand corner. It was difficult to read, for the fire had ravaged half the room and left soot to stain the pretty little painting. She brushed it off carefully, pressing the flashlight closer to the wall and squinting at the dark, careful script. It was a child's hand, yes, but a smart child.

Christa's hand flattened against the old painting, soot smearing against her fingers as she wiped it from the faintly hued flower petals. She stared in awe, her mind growing hazy at the revelation that hit her very hard. "Armin?" she whispered, pushing the light ever so carefully toward the faded signature. The blocky letters only confirmed her suspicions.

"He must have cared about you a lot."

Christa jumped nearly out of her skin, her heart screeching against her ribs as she whirled around, her flashlight shuddering in the dark. The beam missed the shadow in the corner twice before settling across his silhouette, and she stood with a gaping mouth, her eyes adjusting to the aura that had snuck up on her. Golden and distant, a warmth that would not let her feel at ease, she imagined that she could easily turn that brilliant gold a vibrant silver, and watch an aura fade and meld into her own.

But that wasn't something she'd ever do, not unless she had no other choice.

"Erwin," she said, sounding breathless when she was truly furious. Her flashlight beam crashed upon the elder man's face, carving shadows into his cheeks. She considered screaming for Ymir, but saw no point in it. "You scared me."

"Did I?" He looked at her, and she stood petrified for a moment, because his salient eyes were gazing right through her. She was transparent before this man, and she knew it. Armin could not read her, but Erwin Smith? He knew her mind like he'd read it a thousand times. It was utterly terrifying. "I honestly didn't mean to. I thought you'd sense me here."

"I'm not Armin," she said stiffly. "I'm not that in tune with my power to be able to sense people unintentionally."

"That's a shame," he said. "It'd make your power more useful, don't you think?"

Christa didn't say anything in response to that. It made her feel inadequate, and also angry, because she had saved his life with her power. He should be singing her praises. _No_, Christa thought. _Don't be stupid, he's only being logical_. Ungrateful, yes. But logical.

"Did you _follow_ us?" she asked, forcing herself to sound stunned.

"No," he said calmly. "I've been waiting for you."

That struck her as odd, and a little creepy. She eyed him uncertainly, and looked back at the paintings and the photographs. Her father. And Armin. A strange collage of strangers pining for Historia Reiss's comatose love. Pitiful, really.

"Why would you do that?" she asked faintly. "If you knew… if you knew we were coming here, why didn't you stop us?"

Erwin sighed. He pushed away from the corner, and stepped carefully into the light of her flashlight, completely visible now and exhausted by the looks of it. His usually neatly parted hair was crumpled across his forehead, his blue eyes sharp and dark and calculating her every move before she made it. His composed demeanor was defensive.

He sat down on her old bed, and dust coughed out from the aged mattress. "We're going to have a talk, Historia," he said gently. He patted the space beside him, and Christa's heart sank. _Run_, she thought. _Don't listen to him. He's creepy_. But he had caught her attention, caught her interest, caught her sick little mind that craved knowledge and power, and she drifted to his side, his aura recoiling from her proximity. It didn't like her. It knew what she wanted from it, or perhaps it still tasted her presence.

Auras were fickle things.

"Historia?" she asked, standing before in confusedly. "Excuse me? I don't—"

"Don't lie," Erwin said to her. His eyes met hers, and she felt her tongue tie up in her mouth. Her chest ached. "I've had suspicions since I met you, but the missions solidified the theory. You're Historia Reiss."

"I'm Christa," she said weakly. "Christa Lenz."

"I won't fight you on that," he said. He turned his face forward, and shook his head. "I wish it could be as simple as that being true. But we both know it isn't."

"I'm Christa Lenz," she repeated.

"Aren't you curious about why I'm here?" Erwin asked her. "Talking to you in this little room? I suppose you find me strange, or creepy."

"I…" She chose her words carefully, rolling them in her mouth before spitting them out. "No, not really—"

"You're a very good liar," he said. "Or, at least, you lie very easily. You and Armin have that in common, I suppose." Erwin smiled at her bitterly. "He lies through his teeth at me, did you know? It's become something of a game. Catch that boy in a lie, and maybe he'll spill a little truth and begin to make sense."

"Does he?" she whispered, bowing her head. She could no longer fight her curiosity. What _was_ he doing here?

"Armin has never made any sense to me," he said in a slow, vague tone. "I don't think he ever will. I've grown to appreciate him more because of that fact."

"It doesn't make you hate him?" She glanced at Erwin uncertainly. "Or scared of him?"

"I could never be scared of Armin." He smiled, and tilted his head at her. "Are you, Historia?"

"What?"

"Are you afraid of Armin?"

She shook her head furiously. "Of course not," she said. "I just think he's… off. Sometimes."

"You wouldn't be wrong."

"What's this really about?" Christa asked sharply. "I don't think you're here just to babble about Armin, or even really my name. You want something from me."

"You think very low of me," Erwin said, "for a girl who doesn't know me."

"You've scared me," Christa said. "I don't get scared easily, so excuse me. I'm not feeling like myself today."

"You're not feeling like Christa, you mean," he elaborated. She shot him a sharp look, and she took a step back, forcing the flashlight into his face.

"I _am_ Christa," she said furiously. "I don't understand why you're trying to tell me I'm not."

"I'm sorry," Erwin said gently. "I didn't mean to frighten you. Or force you into telling the truth. I only want to speak to you."

"About what?" She couldn't help but want to run away from him. He made her question herself. He made her want to steal and become a person she couldn't be. She was struggling with understanding his presence and her own, and she hated him for doing this to her, making her confused and irritable. She was off today. Just like Armin.

"Sit," he said, folding his hands in his lap. "I have no intention of hurting you. I'm only trying to get a few things straight, and hopefully put some things straight for you as well."

"Excuse me?"

He sighed. His face was solemn in the yellow gleam of her flashlight. His eyes were flashing curiously to her face, and following it with a strange familiarity sparking there. She was wary, but also pained by her own terrible need to know what exactly he meant. So she sat down beside him, sinking into her old mattress, and bowing her head.

They sat in silence for a minute, and Christa plucked at the strings of her cardigan.

"How did you know?" she whispered, covering the blood on her sleeve carefully with her empty hand.

"That you're Historia Reiss?" Erwin sounded amused, but she was sickened by the revelation that she would have trouble hiding now. There was very little left of her charade to keep up. She'd cracked her mask, and now her true face was spilling out. "Her name was on the list of subjects from the facility. Not Christa Lenz."

"They kept record of me?" she asked. She supposed it wasn't so surprising, but she thought her father might be more careful with dealing with the daughter he had never wanted.

"Your name," he said. "But nothing more. I know you were comatose for the majority of your time here, however."

"Yes," she said distantly.

"I also am aware of the grudge you have against your father."

"You know a lot of things," she said quietly, unable to keep the bite from her tone. "Why are you here, Erwin?"

"What did your father do, Historia?" he asked her, turning his face in order to stare into her eyes. He was very close, and his expression was a flurry of shattered shadows. Her flashlight jabbed his chest.

"My name is Christa," she murmured.

"I don't care." He turned his face away, his neck twisting to gaze up at her wall of paintings and photographs. "They must have loved you very much. Whoever Historia Reiss was, she must have been something special, don't you think?" He gazed upon the pinned up vases, the stretch of sooty roses and glazed over suns and faded starlit skies, water colors bleeding into ash upon her sickbed wall. "Armin only paints when he's forgetting. Did you know that?"

"What?" she said faintly. "Forgetting? What does that mean?"

Erwin smiled vaguely, his lips turning upward in dim curiosity. "You really didn't know him then," he observed. "That's unfortunate. I was hoping you'd be able to tell me what he was like before."

"Before?" Christa jumped to her feet and whirled to face him. Her chin rose in defiance. "You're not making any sense!"

"Before the procedure, Historia," he sighed. "You know that his gave him memory problems, don't you?"

"I…" She slumped. She hadn't known that. _There's a lot I don't know_, she thought. "Armin has memory problems?"

Erwin chuckled, and he straightened up in the dim light. Dust swirled around them, and old soot caked the surface of the entire room, forcing a layer of grime over even the prettiest of painting. She wasn't comfortable in here. She wanted to find Ymir and go home.

"He has a lot more than just memory problems," he said. He sounded lofty, then. Sad, maybe. "His power is an incredible strain on his body."

_Armin's mental strength weakens his physical body_, she thought. _But mine only makes me stronger_.

"I noticed," she whispered.

"Well, it's become bad enough that he can't hide it anymore," he said. "That's sure enough. Do you know what he said to me yesterday before he passed out?"

"No."

Erwin smiled tightly, and he looked grim and tired in the exhausted light. She almost pitied him. "He told me," the man said, "that there was something malevolent in his head. He begged me to either take it out, or kill it."

"He speaks in riddles," Christa said slowly. "That could mean anything."

"It could," he agreed. "As I said. I've never understood Armin."

"You know what he meant, though," she sighed. "Or else you wouldn't have brought it up."

"I brought it up because I'm curious," he said. "He's not like anyone I've ever met, and I wonder if you might know him better than I do."

"I've only known him for a few weeks," she said, taken aback. "You've known him for years."

"I raised him." Erwin nodded, and shrugged casually. "I've come to realize that it's difficult to know a boy who doesn't know himself."

_You speak in riddles too_, Christa wished she could say. "But he knew me," she said, turning her attention to the paintings upon her wall. All of them were in that same childish style, the same vivid, faded detailing of a clever child who had known too much for his tiny hands to depict. "How… how is that possible?"

"You tell me," he said placidly, crossing his legs. She felt as though she was speaking to a psychiatrist now. His tone was careful, beckoning, and she found that she wanted to tell him everything for no reason. She certainly didn't trust him.

"How should I know?" She stood, her heart sinking into her stomach like a cold brick, and it hurt to breathe in this stifling room. "I was asleep."

"Your father did that?"

"Yes," she said firmly. He looked at her, smiling knowingly, and her heart sank further and further until it hit rock bottom. She was dead in this sick room. She heard her heart monitor flat line in her mind. She _wished_ she had died here. "He put something in my breakfast," she explained quickly, her cheeks heating up as she recalled her misfortune. "A drug. I watched him do it."

"Are you certain that's what happened?" Erwin asked calmly.

"Of course!" She was frantically searching the depths of her memory now, her heart thudding in terror. She wasn't wrong. Her father had dropped something in her breakfast that morning. She had watched him do it, peeking between the slat in the door between the kitchen and dining room. She was a sneaky child, Historia, so curious and precocious, getting into all sorts of trouble and tripping over herself more often than not.

Historia Reiss had a nervous condition, see. It was not good for her to be overly stimulated. Her father had been cautious at first, but she remembered how frequently he had slipped up. Violent shows flickering on the television, sending her into a shaky fit of shock and terror. Gates opening for her to slip into the back garden to chase a bunny rabbit and fall into a trap of trellis. Firecrackers going off outside, causing fits to erupt and little heads to knock against countertops. Stitches and spasms filled her memory, for one did not exist without the other. She supposed her father had gotten sick of her sickliness. A little something in her breakfast. A little dizzy dose for a little dizzy girl. A chase.

"What's wrong, princess?" her father had cried, almost real tears welling in his eyes as she twisted away from him, searching the floor for something to throw. "Historia, please, stop running, you'll hurt yourself!"

She'd chomped down on his knuckles so hard blood had filled her mouth, and she still tasted the sickly sweetness of it rushing down her throat. She'd torn skin off his fingers, and pushed off him, her tiny limbs flailing madly as she screamed her lungs into combustion. She had felt like a monster, then, a terrible little princess monster, in her terrible palace mansion with a grand staircase that spiraled down and down and down from the top floor, where her room was, where her father had taken her when she had proclaimed herself to be nauseous after eating her poisoned breakfast, a breakfast she had known to be spiked. She had been six. Not a smart girl in the least.

"Historia!" her father had screamed. Her name echoed in her head, and she tasted it in her mouth, blood curdling across her tongue. She spat it back in his face, and tripped over her slippery stockings as she skidded across the floor, crawling and sobbing and shaking. The television had been left on again the night before. Historia had sat, six years old, and watched a girl get poisoned and chased and butchered. She'd seen it. It was going to happen to her. And she was too weak to stop it.

Her father had once been so good at keeping her safe from her own shaky, hysterical self. His subtle instigation had developed into a despicable crime. Historia Reiss had been six, and sickly, and shaky as she screamed and screeched and stumbled down the spiraled stairs. She had gone to sleep with a crack of black, a splintering rush of cold terror and white-hot pain. And she had awoken to an unfamiliar building burning around her.

She was certain it had been her father's fault.

Who else could it have been?

She remembered her father taking her to a tiny little house, an apartment that had felt more like a playhouse than a home, and he remembered he had smoothed back her hair and introduced her to a woman. "Historia," he had said. "I want you to meet someone." And she, a small, sickly, silly child, had looked upon a hazy face and smiled.

"Pleased to meet you," she had said with a gap-toothed smile.

The woman had been blonde. Blue eyed. Fuzzy face and no smile. She had nodded. She had shaken Historia's tiny hand, and Historia saw a rose on her wrist, red bursting with color in the grayish tint of her memory. Thorns had curled across her arm, faded green melting into black. Historia had stared in awe of it.

The woman had held on for a long time. Her hands had been shaking. She had been shaking.

Historia had been put in another room with a sleeping boy. She had peeked through a slat in the door, and crouched on the ratty carpet, listening to her father whisper furiously at the woman. "I've given you enough, haven't I?"

"I've never asked for anything," the woman had hissed. "Only to see her. And you never gave me that privilege before today. Now I'm asking only that you take some pity on me."

"Pity you?" Her father had sounded disgusted. "I'm not here out of pity. I'm here because it's in my best interest to cater to your psychosis, dear."

"Don't call me that."

"You haven't given me a reason to help you."

"I have a son," she said.

Historia's eyes had drifted to the boy slumbering on a little sofa, tufts of blond hair peaking out from under a thin blanket. He woke up under her stare, his eyes blue and ever knowing beneath the fluffy wisps of his hair. He stared at her blankly, and she stared back, crouched beside a door with her skirt pooling around a ratty old carpet, her ear pressed to the crack in order to hear her father speak to the stranger. She always listened in on her father's private conversations. He never ever caught her, she was too sneaky, too quick.

Historia remembered looking at the boy but not truly seeing him. She turned away and focused her attention back on the feuding duo.

"And I'm providing for him the best that I can without drawing attention," her father had said. His words were muffled in the sweet haze of Historia's memory. "But what am I to do with a child without a mother? I can't take him. You know that would cause too many problems."

"Can't he come with me?" the woman asked, sounding desperate.

The boy had appeared beside Historia, his face vacant and uncertain. He was smaller than she was, skinnier and almost as vacant. His tiny shoulders slumped. Historia didn't even look at him. She'd been so enrapt in her own snooping, she didn't care to see this boy.

Now she regretted that.

She didn't remember how that argument had ended. All she remembered was going home, and sneaking out of bed to listen to her mother and father fight. He'd told her that it wasn't any of her business, and her mother had called him a cheat, and a liar, and she'd said something about a bastard and a whore and Historia had sat, soaking it all in, all the bad words and all the bad vibes, and she felt that it was her fault somehow.

She recalled, vacantly, that night her mother had found her in the living room. She'd turned the channel onto something horrid.

"Are you certain," Erwin said softly, "Historia?"

She stood in a dreary, stifling room with a thousand pictures plastered across her old walls, telling her stories of love she'd never felt. Had that skinny, fluffy haired boy in her memory been Armin? Had the woman with the rose tattoo been his mother? And what of her own mother, who Historia barely remembered, a cold woman who rarely gave Historia any attention?

"No," she said dimly, her heart thundering in her chest. "No, I'm not so certain of anything anymore."

"Why don't you tell me what you've remembered?"

She shot him a look, terror forming in her face, and she took a step back. "How do you know I remembered anything?" she asked, folding her hands over her chest. Her heart was thrumming, a hummingbird beating at her ribs.

He moved his head, and his eyes gleamed in the ever bursting glow of her flashlight beam. "You asked me why I'm here," he said. "How I knew? Isn't it obvious, Historia?"

His smile was all knowing. His eyes were salient with his truths glowing within them, beacons that saw right through her dark, dastardly lies. She stared at him, and she suddenly understood. She suddenly found herself to be unbearably stupid.

"You saw it," she whispered aloud. "Oh. You saw all of this, didn't you? You knew this entire conversation before it even happened."

"That's pushing it a bit," he said, laughing at her ignorance. "I knew the gist of what this conversation entailed. But I couldn't catch every word. It wasn't a long vision."

"Then why should I tell you anything?" she asked, feeling dull and furious and empty as she spoke. "If you already know everything, I shouldn't tell you a thing, should I?" She wasn't sure. She was so lost here. Her mind was swimming with darkened memories. A boy's tiny face. A woman's rose.

"Telling me will help you understand," he said. "And I think you need to understand."

"Understand what?" She looked across the walls, grimy and sooty and filled with paintings and photographs, truths and lies. "Armin?"

"Yes," he said. "Tell me about Armin."

Her stomach twisted in uncertainty. What did she even know about Armin, truly? "He knows me," she whispered. "He knew me before his procedure. And he… forgot about me?" She turned her head around the room, and shrugged. "Who is he to me?"

"I think you know the answer to that question," Erwin said gently. He rose from the bed, her old little sickbed that had changed far more than she had. She could still fit in it, she realized, her eyes flitting over the broken in mattress. Her body had not grown at all since she'd been a prisoner in this room.

She stared at Erwin, feeling hopelessly confused, because this was not something she wanted. She had done well enough in forgetting the past. She had done well for herself in forgetting, because she had only wanted to be free of her burdening memories, but now she was stuck trying to sort them out. She had met Armin. Yes, that was true, she saw that now. When she had been six years old, and Armin had been five, ten years ago, she had met him.

"What are you doing?" that poor little boy had whispered, standing over her crouching form. "Miss?"

"Shh," Historia had grabbed him by the elbow and yanked him down with her. He crouched, staring at her with wonder in his face. "They're fighting."

"Yeah…" The boy knelt, a button nose wrinkling as his hazy head tilted. "I heard. Is it because mama is sick?"

"Huh?" Historia had pushed the door in order to muffle their voices, and she squinted at the boy beside her. "Sick?"

"Yeah," the boy said softly. "She's got the fallin' down disease. Like Julius Caesar."

"Falling down disease?" Historia had not understood that. "What does that mean?"

"She falls down a lot," the boy had whispered, glancing worriedly at the door. "She sometimes falls and screams and flops around. She cries a lot too…" He hugged his knees to his chest, sitting on the balls of his feet and rocking. "I think she's scared 'bout me, because she gets tired really fast, and can't move much. Is your papa a doctor?"

Historia had shook her head mutely. _Falling down disease_, she thought then, and she thought now, dizzy and sickened. Oh. "Erwin," she said distantly, walking up to the rose vase on the wall, "is epilepsy hereditary?"

She felt the man at her back, and she knew before he spoke. Her heart sunk so far that it disappeared into a chasm within her. She was surprised she still had a heart.

"Yes," Erwin said. "Epilepsy can be passed genetically, though I believe it's rare for a parent to pass the disease directly to his or her child. Rare, but not unheard of."

"Ah," she said faintly. "I see."

"As far as I'm aware," he said, "Armin does not have epilepsy."

"No," she said, reaching out and touching the roses, the childish strokes of red and pink smooth against the blackened paper. "But I did…"

"You don't anymore?"

"I don't get sick anymore," she sighed, closing her eyes. Armin had painted a picture of roses in a vase, and that painting was sitting on his desk. _He must be forgetting something_, she thought. _Or maybe he's remembering_… "Erwin… I think I was wrong. I don't think my father was solely responsible for my coma."

"No?" He was smiling, and she whirled around, pushing the light into his face.

"I was a bastard, wasn't I?" she squeaked, feeling sheepish and uncertain with all her memories clogging her foggy brain. "My father had an affair with a woman with epilepsy, and then he… adopted… me, because she couldn't take care of me. And my mother… my father's wife, she hated me because of that." Her eyes were wide, and she felt like she was going to scream, she was so angry and confused and devoid of any sense. "That woman had a rose tattoo! I remember now! She had a rose tattoo, and that's… I liked it." She shuddered, and dropped her flashlight. It clattered against the dusty floor, and she watched Erwin pick it up carefully, turning the light to her face. She was close to tears, she hated this so much. Why couldn't she have been a normal little girl with a normal family? Why had her father been involved with the institute? Why did this happen? "Oh… I was just telling Ymir I wanted a rose tattoo. Isn't that funny?" She laughed, a forceful sound that grated against her throat. She buried her face in her hands.

"It's okay to not know how to feel, Historia," he told her carefully.

"I don't want to be Historia!" She dug her nails into her scalp, and shoved her hands up from her eyes and gazed at Erwin frightfully, tears obscuring his features. "I want to be Christa! Christa never had epilepsy! She's… she's a good girl who never hurt anyone!" She was close to hysterics, her voice breaking miserably apart. "She wasn't an illegitimate child of any powerful person, and she didn't have a brother, and she wasn't scared of anything!"

"That kind of girl doesn't exist," Erwin said. "You want too much, Historia. You're not perfect."

She stared at him, tears slipping and flushing her cheeks. A flashlight beam blinded her as her lips trembled, and she choked back a sob. "I don't want to be perfect!" she cried. "I just want to be a good person!"

"Is Historia Reiss not a good person?"

She winced, and shook her head, covering her face and shaking her head some more. "Go away," she murmured. "I-I… I'm not the person you think I am."

"Are you saying that because you've killed someone?"

She lowered her hands and stared at Erwin in horror. Her stomach twisted in disgust, and she backtracked until she hit a wall, bits of ash crumpling around her. "How could you possibly know about that?" she whispered.

Erwin smiled vaguely, and she forced herself to close her eyes. It wasn't fair. She was surrounded by riddlers and tricksters, and she was just a monster being played for a fool. It wasn't fair!

"I know your power," he said. "I know it's not so simple as giving life. Manipulating an aura means you can make it stronger, but you can just as easily make it weaker. I deduced that you must have killed someone in order to gain this knowledge, thus describing your power as aura manipulation, and being very adamant that it is _not_ healing."

She found she couldn't respond to that. Her tongue was unyielding in her mouth, lying uselessly against her teeth. She opened her eyes, and tears streaked down her cheeks. She wished she could hate him for this, but she felt utterly empty. She pressed her back further against the wall behind her, and she slid weakly to her knees.

"I didn't mean to," she whispered. "It had just happened, I couldn't… I didn't know what I was doing. It was a mistake."

"You don't have to explain yourself to me," he said, his voice a distant, vacant sound. "I've killed people. Much more than you, I can assure. What matters is that you want to atone for what you've done. I can't judge you for anything. I'm not a good person, no more than you or Armin or Annie Leonhardt or Levi." He stepped toward her very slowly, and she stared at the ground. It was very dark in here. She felt like the darkness had swallowed her up, and spat her out used and empty.

_So much for being heroes_, she thought dazedly. He crouched before her, and she stared at him dully, her hands falling into her lap. "Did you come here," she whispered, "just to make me remember these terrible things?"

"No," he sighed. "I came here because I have Armin's best interests at heart. Always. I won't tell him he has living family if you are not willing to be the sister he needs. You're welcome to tell him, if you'd like." He smiled that awful, vague little smile of his, and she was surprised at how little she could hate this man. He was too charismatic. "But if you do, you know you can't be Christa Lenz anymore, right?"

She sat quietly, and she wondered if she had ever been Christa Lenz to begin with. "Do I really have a choice?" she whispered.

"Do you have a choice in telling Armin that he's your brother?" Erwin laughed gently, and she bowed her head. "He won't figure it out by himself, I imagine, unless he remembers something. I have no clue how much he might know about it, in the depths of his mind. It could be that he already knows." Erwin shrugged. "It's up to you."

She sighed. This was all too much. She'd only come in here out of curiosity. Now she was paying for that, with painful memories and harsh truths and terrible possibilities. "We can't know for sure that he's my brother," she said suddenly, looking up at Erwin and searching his face. "We're just speculating. I'm just guessing, from memories that have been sitting in my head, completely untouched for ten years! We can't know for sure, can we?"

"We can," he said, peering at her face. "If you and Armin consent to a DNA test."

"Oh," she mumbled, rubbing her face tiredly. She wiped at the tears streaking her grimy face. "But then I'd have to tell him, wouldn't I?"

"You could always do it without his consent," he said, his eyes narrowing. "But I won't help you with that."

"It wouldn't be very nice…" She sighed, and rested her head back against the dusty, crumbling wall behind her. Her ponytail squished against ash, and dark particles danced into her line of vision. "What if we're not related?"

"Then you're more use to us as Historia Reiss than Christa Lenz," he said.

_He's manipulating me_, she thought furiously. _And I'm… I'm letting him_.

"And… if we are related?" She was feeling empty and dull, but somehow disgustingly enraged. "What do I do?"

"That's your choice," he said. "As I said, I'm here for Armin. Not you."

"You really care about him," she said, unable to keep her bitterness from trailing into her voice.

"Some days more than others." Erwin smiled, and she stared at him in wonder. This wasn't that vague smile he'd been handing her for the past twenty minutes. No, it was a genuine smile of fondness, his eyes lighting up without curiosity or omniscience to force creepiness onto them. No, they were charming, and bright, and she found herself smiling weakly back at him.

"He must have cared about me too," she said, pushing herself to her feet. She dusted the ash from her leggings to no avail. _He must have_, she told herself. _Why else would he paint these things for me?_ "I have to talk to Ymir before I make my decision."

"That's fine," he said. "I'm in no rush."

She nodded, dazed and dull and dimly aware of her own disgust. She pushed her hair behind her ears, and she turned her chin up to Erwin. She wouldn't sob in front of this man. She refused to do so. She was, she knew, much stronger than that. Christa Lenz or not.

"Come on," she said, marching past Erwin and pushing herself into the black hall. She felt around the walls until he dangled her flashlight before her. She grasped it, and frowned deeply. "I'm going to tell Ymir everything. I owe her that much."

"Armin and Jean have advised me against trusting Ymir," he said, nodding beside her. He produced his own flashlight. "Don't you find her mannerisms a bit strange?"

"You're assuming I ever found Ymir to be normal," she said. "That wouldn't be true at all. I've always found Ymir to be extraordinary. She's saved me more times than I can count, and me her as well. We take care of each other. She deserves to know."

"Has she ever told you about her grandmother?"

She almost laughed. "Grandmother?" She studied Erwin quizzically. "Ymir was raised here. I don't think she's got any grandmother…"

He didn't falter in his steps, but he did peer at her with a sense of wonder in his eyes. Her heart nearly stopped as she realized something. Oh no, she thought wildly, was that a secret? She had no idea! She'd just assumed…?

"Have you ever heard of a girl named Ilse Langner?" he asked her very slowly.

Ilse Langner?

No, that didn't sound familiar. She shook her head. "Who's that?" she asked.

"She told us that was her grandmother's name," he said. "Does Ymir always tell you the truth?"

"She…" Well, no, Ymir didn't, but what did that matter? _I'm a liar_, she thought. _So is Ymir. That's why we're such good friends, because we're both such compulsive liars_. "Ymir is only ever honest with me."

"I see."

She couldn't tell if he believed her or not. It was difficult to understand this man, this all knowing terror of a man who could not be trusted, and yet here she was taking his word, his nudges into the direction he saw fit, and she didn't even care. She understood that he was manipulating her, but she was a girl who was made to be manipulated. She wasn't entirely sure what this meant for her, but she saw that her future was standing beside Erwin. And she had a crazy feeling he'd sought her out knowing just that.

"Ymir," she called, pushing herself through the battered doorway into Ymir's old room. It was dark, of course, but she saw that it was less like a prison here. Aside from the cryogenic pod in the center of the room, and the charts on the walls, Ymir's room looked homely. There were books and things lying around, an old camera, a stack of papers, pencils on the floor. This room had been well used.

"Ah!" Ymir whirled to face her, a thicket of photographs in her hands. "_Cari__ñ__o_, don't you know you shouldn't creep up on a person like that? It's awful rude."

"Sorry," she said, standing awkwardly in the doorway and blinking dazedly at her lanky friend. Ymir was shifting from photograph to photograph, a tight frown on her lips. Wisps of brown hair stuck to her cheeks. She was sweating. Nervous. Her flashlight was stuck under one arm. "Is something wrong?"

Ymir barked a chilly laugh. "Oh," she said, "oh, no, not really. I just hate being right, I suppose. Christ, I'm a fool."

"What were you right about?" she asked slowly, stepping into the room. Ymir glanced at her, and smiled wanly. She looked very pale, and very irritated.

"I was…" She paused, and glanced down at the photographs. "Oh. _Mierda_. Guess I should tell you now. It'll come out sooner or later."

"What?" She was stunned. Everyone was acting so strange today. She felt as though she was simultaneously losing her mind, and acting the only sane man in this play of madness. "Ymir… I have to tell you something too. I don't really… I don't know how to explain, but I need your help with it, okay?"

"Yeah." Ymir nodded, not even looking at her. "Yeah, love, of course. But first, I've gotta… I have to go first. Yeah? Okay, look here." Ymir beckoned her closer, and Christa moved slowly to her side, her boots scuffing against the floor. A photograph was passed between them, and she let her flashlight hover over the vintage snapshot. It was of a little girl, lanky and scowling at a lens. She was wearing fatigues, like Ymir was now, and her hand was outstretched toward the camera. This girl had a shadowy face, dark eyes glinting in firelight, dark skin marred by a thousand freckles, like dark sand sprinkled across her face and neck. Her shadowy chin was pointed, and so was her nose. Her lips were thin. Her hair was choppy, a bob that curled at her ears. Her fingers were splayed, and in the strange lighting of this photograph, in this dusty old room, wisps of flame clung to the girl's bony hands, bursting outward from the very freckles of her dark skin, and threatening to consume the photographer whole.

_Oh my god_, she thought numbly. "But…" she gasped, unable to tear her eyes from the photo. "Ymir, this is…!"

Ymir snatched the photograph from her scrawny hand, and she watched with a cry of shock as the stack of photos in Ymir's grasp erupted in a great snarling ball of flame. "Ymir!" she cried, stumbling away from the mass of smoldering photos. Embers fluttered to the ground sadly.

"_Mierda_!" Ymir shouted, her voice booming as she flung her flaming hands up. The fire guttered out. "Where the hell did you come from?"

Christa whirled around and saw Erwin standing in the doorway. He'd been there the entire time, she knew, but seeing him gave her a fright. He watched them both with that same vague expression that he'd worn the majority of his conversation with her. It was eerie, and undeniably creepy. He stepped into the room, nodding curtly Ymir's way.

"I didn't mean to frighten you," he said. "But I suppose it's a little late for apologies."

"You think?" Ymir said snidely, gesturing to the pile of ash on the floor that had once been a stack of photographs. "Thanks so much."

"What were you saying, Ymir?" Erwin asked. "Something you had to tell?"

"Not you," Ymir said stiffly. "This is between me and Christa."

"I didn't mean to intrude," he said delicately. "But if you have information on the institute you're hiding— well, that wouldn't go to well with the others, I imagine."

"Erwin." Christa stared him down. "Enough, please. Ymir doesn't have to say a thing."

_She's already told me, anyway_, she thought unhappily, wondering how she had not realized it before. Cryostasis. Of course. Ymir had been frozen decades ago, and then reawakened only just five years ago. It explained the way she talked, and why she was so interesting.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Of course you're right. Ymir, you don't have to tell me anything."

"Wasn't gonna anyhow," she sneered.

"I wonder," he said carefully, smiling oh so vaguely, "do you often lose control of your powers when you get scared?"

"It's not uncommon," Ymir said smoothly. "Luckily I don't scare easy."

"No," he said just as coolly, "you only get frightened of men you know standing in doorways."

"You're a skeev," Ymir declared. "No doubt why you frightened me!"

"I suppose I'm just a very frightening person," Erwin mused aloud, his smile only tightening.

His phone began to ring.

He stood for a moment, his eyes locked with Ymir's. And then he pulled out his phone, and he answered it with a quick, "Yes?"

She wondered what she would say to Armin when she next saw him. She knew it would either be a confession or a lie. There was no way around this. She would go home today either Christa or Historia. One girl a pretty lie, another girl a grotesque truth. She wasn't ready to face either of them.

"Currently?" He did not raise his eyes to them. "Not in a position to disclose. You?"

Ymir scoffed, and she turned away, glowering at the walls of her old room. As if that'd make this situation any more bearable.

"Ah. I see." He raised his eyes to Ymir. He held her gaze, and his vague smile disappeared. "I'll take care of it."

He hung up, and pocketed his phone. He straightened up, nodding placidly to both of them while keeping his eyes solely on Ymir. "That was Hange," he said. "It seems Levi's been hurt."

"Is he okay?" Christa blurted. Erwin looked at her, and he nodded.

"It appears that way," he said. Then he sighed, and shook his head. "Though knowing Levi, it's likely a lot worse than it seems. They were attacked outside the Capuchin Crypts."

"The what?" Ymir asked flatly.

"It's a church in Rome that has vaults filled with bones of Capuchin monks," Christa said softly. Erwin glanced at her curiously, while Ymir merely sighed.

"Sounds abs-o-_lutely_ joyful," she chirped. "Sign me up to be buried there."

"It's strange," he said, smiling at Ymir. "Levi said that Annie was the one who attacked them."

"Annie?" Christa gasped excitedly. "Oh, is she okay? Do you think?"

"Stop acting like you care," Ymir drawled.

"Stop pretending you don't," she replied in kind.

"Perhaps we should make our way out," Erwin suggested, turning away from them.

"You can go," Ymir said. "But we've got our own business to deal with."

"You misunderstood me," he said, turning his eyes to her sharply. "We're making our way out. Follow me."

Ymir stood for a moment as Erwin left the room, and she whirled to face Christa. "What is he doing here?" she hissed.

"He came to talk to me," Christa whispered, unsure of how to respond. Erwin was acting even stranger than he had earlier, if possible. "I need to talk to you about it, Ymir, it's so weird! I don't even know where to begin!"

"Start with," Ymir said, throwing a furious glare at the doorway, "getting the hell outta here without him."

"No," Christa said.

"What?" Ymir looked at her, brown eyes growing wide and alarmed. "What do you mean, no? We have to get rid of him."

"Ymir, we can't," she said. "We have to go with him. We're done here. We have to go home."

"We can't go home," Ymir hissed, reaching out and grasping both Christa's arms. "Don't you see? He doesn't trust me— none of them do. They think I'm the next Annie."

"Don't be silly!"

"I'm just pointing out what you already know," she breathed, looking irritated. "They're pointing fingers at me now. They'll point fingers at you too."

"Me?" Christa couldn't help but laugh. "I'm useless. I haven't got any information worth knowing."

"Oh yeah?" Ymir scowled. "Then what is it you were going to tell me, huh?"

"I was going to tell you that Armin might be my brother," Christa said, rolling her eyes. "Which is something I realized today. I'm thinking of telling him. I was going to ask you what you thought, but now I'm feeling as though I'm not especially fond of what you have to say."

"Oh, come on," Ymir groaned. "Don't get like that!"

"Let's just go home," she said, turning to the door. She poked her head out, and saw Erwin standing a little ways down the hall. She waved at him. _I think I'll wait to tell Armin_, she thought. _Until I can figure this out. It can wait, can't it? There's so much going on right now, and Armin has enough going on in his head_. Ymir followed her out the door rather grudgingly, her dark eyes glaring fervently at her back.

"Witch," Ymir cooed. "I did nothing wrong."

"I'm not really angry with you," Christa said, not sure if she meant it. "I just think you're overreacting."

"Did you say Armin's your brother?" Ymir jumped beside her, turning her mood right around. "That's probably the most unfortunate thing I've ever heard. My poor darling."

"Poor Armin," Christa cooed, echoing Ymir's tone. "Having such a fool for a sister."

"You're awful hard on yourself today."

"I forgot his face," she murmured. "I met him when I was little, but I forgot his face. Isn't that the worst?"

"Not really." Ymir shrugged. "So are you sure he's your brother?"

"No…" Christa watched Erwin's back, her palm sweaty against her flashlight. "But we do sort of look alike."

"Yes, well, excepting the fact that you pluck your eyebrows." Ymir laughed, her voice cracking across the soft, vacuous air.

"Fair enough." Christa laughed along with her, feeling a little better. Being Armin's sister couldn't be so bad. But then, being Armin's sister meant she had to be Historia. She wasn't sure how she felt about that.

"But I guess," Ymir yawned, ducking under a beam as they followed Erwin back into daylight, "you two do sorta look alike. Your hair, and your eyes. Maybe even the shape of your face, a little."

"I guess," she said softly. It was raining again. Mist clung to every surface, and Christa frowned. The ground outside the institute building was all muddy. "Erwin, we took a motorcycle here. Can we just follow you home?"

"No," he said. "I think I'd prefer it if you both came with me."

"Hell no," Ymir spat.

"It would be much safer."

"Hell fucking no." Ymir grabbed Christa's arm. Her fingers tightened around the sleeve that had been torn by the road and bloodied by her own incompetence. "We managed swell before you showed up, pops."

"Ymir," Erwin said cautiously. "I'm going to tell you once. Come with me."

Her eyes flashed dangerously, and she laughed so loudly her voice cracked across the gray sky like thunder clapping. "You can't tell me a damned thing!" she cried. "And you can't make me do nothin'! Let's go."

Ymir pulled Christa forward, and she stumbled a little, mud sucking at her boots as she waded through it cautiously. She shot a glance at Erwin, feeling a twinge of regret. "Ymir," she said, "I think I'm going to go with Erwin."

"What?" Ymir stopped, mud spitting into the air and splattering Christa's leggings. "No you're not."

"You should come too," she said, feeling unsure as she spoke. "Erwin's right. It'd be safer."

"You can heal me!" Ymir's fingers dug into Christa's bicep so tightly that she winced. "This is stupid!"

"Ymir, please," Christa said, throwing a glance at Erwin again. "Please, I think we should really go with him."

"No way!" Ymir's face twisted against the misting rain, her lips curling into a snarl. "Why does it matter to you, anyway? You trust me more than you trust him!"

_Yes_, she thought, _but I know Erwin will take me home_.

"Ymir…" she whispered. "Please? I'm tired, and it's cold and rainy, and it'd be nice to take a car home, wouldn't it?"

"No."

"You're just being difficult…"

"Me?" Ymir snorted. "Love, you have _no_ idea!"

"Ymir," Erwin said. "This isn't going to end the way you want it to. Just please come with me."

"Mm," she said. "No thanks, old man."

Christa stared up at her friend desperately. There was no way, was there? She'd have to go with Ymir. "I'm sorry, Erwin," she said, twisting to face the man. She tried to smile. "We'll see you back home, okay?"

He stared at her, and he saw his eyes narrow. Oh no. Christa stared at him as she stumbled forward, her arm still firmly in Ymir's grasp. No, something was terribly wrong. "I'm going to tell Armin," she said suddenly, facing forward. "I'm going to tell him everything."

"Yeah?" Ymir was holding her very tightly. It hurt.

"Yes…" The ground was gobbling up her boots, making it extremely difficult to walk. "I can't be Christa anymore, I don't think. Not if I want Armin to be my brother."

"Brothers suck," Ymir mumbled. "Siblings suck. Family _sucks_. What am I supposed to call you now, anyhow?"

"Historia." She closed her eyes. Yes. That was who she was. It was hard to admit, but it was who she had always been underneath that terrible smiling mask. Now she felt empty. Free, maybe? Was this what freedom felt like? She wouldn't know. "That's always been my name, I guess."

Ymir stopped. She looked at Historia, rain trickling against her warm cheeks. She smiled sadly. "Did you know," she whispered, "that my name wasn't always Ymir?"

"What?" Historia stood, awed and confused, and she shook her head. "What does that mean?"

"My name," Ymir said quietly. "It's— well, it _was_—"

"Ymir," Erwin called out. "I know you killed Eren's mother."

Historia whirled around, her jaw dropping as she gazed back at Erwin, her eyes flashing between them. "What?" she croaked. Ymir 's dark eyes snapped closed, and her sad smile crumpled. Her fingernails dug into Historia's bicep. "Ymir…?"

"Damn," she said, suddenly smiling wanly up at the sky. "And to think I thought we were gonna get away."

"Wait…" Historia's knees were wobbling, and she twisted away from Ymir, pulling at her arm. "Wait, is that true? Did you really—?"

"Love," Ymir whispered suddenly, her eyes snapping open. "I hate you. Okay?"

"Um…" Historia shot a glance at Erwin, who was watching them, his brow furrowed. "Okay. Yes. You hate me. Why do you hate me, exactly…?"

"You're annoying," Ymir said flatly. Her voice was quiet, and she was speaking mechanically, her eyes dull and tired. "You're such a load. I hate you."

"Okay. I understand."

Ymir stared at her. And she smiled, her fingers catching flame, somehow producing fire against the humidity and the rain, and Historia felt it latch onto her bicep. Ymir shoved her into the mud as a scream tore from her throat, confusion and pain viciously pounding into her brain. "Wait—" Historia gasped, tears blinding her as she rolled onto her stomach, fire gnawing at her elbow and enveloping her forearm. "Wait! Ymir!"

Ymir had gone running.

"Ymir!" Historia was screeching, her heart thudding in her throat. Tears streaked her muddy face as Erwin pulled her upright, smothering the flames with his jacket. She thrashed against him, but she could not pull herself to her feet. "_Ymir_!"

Ymir disappeared into the rain and the mist, and left Historia sinking into mud and ash. She inhaled rainwater, dirt clinging to her lips, and she screamed again, a wordless cry that pierced the air. Erwin wrapped his jacket carefully around her as she screeched and cried and called Ymir's name, hopelessly trying to make sense of what had just happened. When she had gone quiet, and minutes ticked by of nothing but the patter of rain against mud, against charred shingles, against tall, whistling grass, Erwin cautiously wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

"I'm so sorry," he said.

She said nothing. She stared vacantly ahead of her, wondering where this day had gone so horribly wrong. She was just about waist deep in mud, and the smell of smoke was clinging to her hair. She wondered if it had been singed. Oh, she hoped not.

"Can I see your arm?" Erwin asked her politely. She did not respond. She stared dully ahead. She nodded vacantly.

He pulled his coat carefully away, and stared for a moment at her bare arm. The sleeve of her cardigan had been ripped away, singed right off, but otherwise her arm was utterly unscathed. Soot clung to her pasty skin. She sighed. She had liked that cardigan.

"You have regenerative powers," Erwin observed.

"Yes," Historia said distantly. "Can we go home now?"

"Yes." Erwin helped Historia to her feet, and she leaned against him, watching the foggy patch of road where Ymir had disappeared. "I didn't mean for that to happen. I wanted to bring you both back so we could interrogate Ymir about what happened to Eren's mother, but…"

She looked at him sharply, her eyes searching his tired face. "But?" she asked furiously. "You made her run away! You made it so obvious, she was never going to come with you!"

"I know," he sighed. "That was my intention. It's better this way for her."

They reached his car, and Historia stood shakily, her muddy legs weak as she pulled Erwin's coat tighter around her. "Why would you want her to run away?" Historia whispered, tears welling up in her eyes. "That's not smart at all."

"I had a vision," Erwin said. He turned his face to the sky, and rain splashed against his cheeks. "Eren killed Ymir. I chose to keep that future from ever happening."

Historia opened her mouth to speak, but she had no words. They were stolen from her by this knowledge, whether it was truth or no. She couldn't find any reason for him to lie about this. He'd saved Ymir's life in making her run. But he'd also stolen Ymir from Historia. Or maybe, he'd stolen Historia from Ymir.

"I made my decision," she told him.

He turned his eyes back to her, and he smiled. Vague. So vague, and so terrible.

Historia realized she trusted this man, and she hated herself for that.

"Ah," he said. "And who are you?"

She wished she could be that perfect girl she'd built up. She wished that girl had been real. But the truth was that she had always been that dull, scarred girl in the mirror. It was such a sickening, saddening thought.

"I'm Historia Reiss," she said firmly.

* * *

_Writing Historia is one of my favorite things ever, oh my god wow._

_So I gave an explanation to the stuff that happened with Historia. Oh, and Ymir's gone. And yumkuri stuff, which is really important bc Steph, the person who this fic is actually for, love yumikuri._

_I'm pretty sure I wrote this chapter like ten weeks ago. I'm really glad that I'm almost finished, wOW. (almost finished as in, on my end, since i'm always eight chapters ahead)_

_I don't really have much else to say, but hey. I'm not affected by things in this story, I know what happens. _


	20. remember you will die

**memento mori**

**Manhattan, New York**

_a.d. xi Kalendas Novembres, 2766 A.U.C_

He'd spent the morning drawing roses onto his wall. Mikasa had caught him, and she'd stood with her back pressed against the wall, watching with curious black eyes as he dazedly took a red sharpie to the powdery blue paint of his bedroom walls, careful strokes of a pen point bleeding into sloppy lines. He was not a good artist. The roses looked like bloody splotches upon his walls. He wondered if that was not his intention all along.

"You've been drawing roses a lot lately, Armin," Mikasa said. "Why is that?"

She didn't know, of course. The night Historia had come to him to tell him of their possible relation was the same night they agreed it would be better if they didn't tell anyone. Erwin had agreed as well, sitting between them on Armin's bedroom floor and carefully swabbing the inside of Historia's cheek. She stared vacantly ahead of her, unfazed and uninterested in the entire ordeal.

Historia didn't talk very much. She often avoided Armin altogether, or any of them for that matter. She was very broken up over Ymir. Eren was even more-so, because when he had come home to find out Ymir Langner, the girl who had killed his mother, was missing? He'd thrown an actual temper tantrum. Armin had cut Eren out of his head as he stood at his back, waiting for Mikasa to make a move to placate him. Instead of focusing his energy on Eren, he'd met Bertholdt's eye. _Maybe I should tell him_, Armin had thought into the tall boy's mind. _Why don't you stop me?_ But Bertholdt had merely looked away, ashamed, and hurriedly left the room. Armin hadn't said anything about Bertholdt possessing Ymir.

"Erwin," Armin had said, "do you think that it's possible that I can't read Historia's mind because she's related to me?"

"It's plausible," Erwin said, taking Armin's chin between two fingers. Historia looked bored, examining her cuticles with a frown. Her pale hair framed her face, and the more Armin looked at her, the more it scared him that she could be his sister. It meant he had a mother. It meant his father might be… "Thought it wouldn't explain me."

"Well," Armin said, smiling brightly up at the man, "maybe you're our uncle, or something!"

Erwin had laughed at that, and Historia had glanced up at them. She hadn't found it very funny, it seemed, because her eyes had drooped and her lips had pulled into a grimace. "Don't make jokes like that," he warned. "At this point, who knows what could be true."

"I wouldn't mind," Armin said. "And it's not like we don't look alike, or anything. We could all be related, for all we know."

"Should I swab my cheek as well?" Erwin asked, tilting Armin's head to the side. "See if perhaps we're all stems on the same convoluted family tree?"

"Please don't," Armin said weakly.

"I'm only teasing," he said. "Mostly. Say "ah," now, will you?"

"Ha," Armin said instead, opening his mouth wide enough for Erwin to carefully swab the inside of his cheek, the cotton swab tickling his jaw as it poked around the sensitive, fleshy parts of his mouth. Erwin withdrew the cotton swab, sticking it in a red capped plastic tube. Historia's was purple. "What if we aren't really related?"

"Then I was wrong," Erwin said, gathering up the samples he'd taken from their cheeks. "Though I don't think it's likely. I've suspected it since I met Historia. You're far too much alike, you know."

"Really?" Historia asked, blinked up at Erwin as he rose to his feet. "How?"

"Well," he said, "for one thing, you're both very secretive about things that trouble you."

"Secretive?" Armin said innocently. Erwin shot him a sharp look as Armin smiled wanly. "I have no idea what you mean. Historia?"

"You're a terrible liar," she said in a tone just as innocent.

"Maybe compared to you."

They stared at each other, and suddenly they were both frowning. They glanced away from Erwin, unable to truly accept that the man was right about them. He seemed very content with their banter, because he laughed at them, and ruffled Armin's hair as he passed by. "Don't take it so hard," Erwin said. "It's completely natural that you're alike in some ways. But you're also two very different people, and you must remember that. Okay?"

"You don't need to reassure us," Armin said quietly.

"No," he said, "no, I imagine not." He left them with a curt nod, his eyes meeting Armin's, and there was something comforting about his gaze. Comfort was something Erwin was uncannily good at. Even when Armin felt like he was crumbling, Erwin seemed to know exactly what to say to make him feel better. And, of course, Erwin could tell that Armin wasn't doing well. He didn't need to be inside Armin's head to know how Armin was feeling. Though, it was no secret how glum his demeanor had become. He supposed his empathy was a two-way street. Everyone seemed to taste his sour mood, and he found they avoided him because of it. Or maybe they were all in equally poor states.

"How are you doing?" Armin had asked Historia gently. She glanced at him solemnly, her hands resting in her lap, and she pursed her lips.

"Funny," she said, not sounding very amused. "I was about to ask you the same thing."

"You know I'm fine," he sighed.

"I know you're lying," she said. "You threw up again this morning."

"It's just from the headaches," Armin said. "That's all. But I'm not talking about me. I'm asking you if you're okay."

"I'm not feeling very much like I'm anything right now," she said. "Ask me again when things don't look so bleak."

Armin nodded. "Fair enough," he said. "I'm just surprised you're holding up so well. If Eren did to me what Ymir did to you, I think I'd be a mess. Constantly." He tried to smile, but it felt tight on his lips. "I'm a total cry baby."

Historia sat, her eyes downcast, and Armin had wondered if he'd said something wrong. He was being insensitive, of course. He had a tendency to do that when the situation became awkward for him. He just didn't know what to say, so he simply spoke. He was never eloquent when it came to these things. It was harsh, and it was strange, and he didn't like it at all.

"Do you ever get seizures, Armin?" Historia asked suddenly.

He had sat there on his floor across from her, stunned nearly into silence. "No," he'd said, trying to crawl into the back of his foggy mind. Did he ever get seizures? Of course not! Right? "I think I'd know if I did. Why?"

"When I was little," she sighed, "I had epilepsy. It was terrible. I was always falling down, hitting my head, getting caught in sharp things, thrashing and throwing tantrums and making things worse for myself. I never realized that was what I had, though. And then I met you. And your mother." She closed her eyes, unmoving from her rigid position across from him. "You called it the falling down disease."

Armin's mouth had gone dry, a dizzying recollection of those words striking his head and his heart. "Like Julius Caesar!" he cried, falling backwards onto his hands. She opened her eyes and peered at him quizzically.

"Yes," she said. "That's exactly what you said."

He flushed, feeling foolish for the information kept filed away in the deep, cavernous fog of his mind. "You had epilepsy," Armin said. "But not anymore?"

"I don't get sick anymore," Historia admitted. "My body is always in perfect health. It's just the way my power works."

"That's so amazing," Armin gasped. "I wish my power would strengthen my mind and body instead of destroying it."

"Oh?" Historia cocked her head, blond hair curling across her rosy cheeks. "I thought you said you were fine."

He couldn't reply to that. He shrugged, and watched her as she watched him. They watched each other, plainly unable to comprehend their own situation, and he frowned suddenly at a revelation. "Historia," he said softly. "How tall are you?"

"Four-nine," she sighed, pulling her knees up to her chest and embracing them. The action was familiar, and as she tucked her chin against her knees, Armin couldn't help but smile. "Legally a midget, you know."

"I'm sure you could fetch a lovely part in one of the new _Hobbit_ movies," he teased her.

"I'm sorry?" She quirked an eyebrow at him, raising her face only to frown. "What?"

"Oh my god," Armin groaned, flopping onto his back. "You are so missing out if you've never seen _Lord of the Rings_."

"I've heard of them," she said. "But we weren't exactly in a position to binge watch movies on the road, Armin."

"Yeah, I know." He stared up at his ceiling, wondering if perhaps this theory he had developed about Historia was correct. Part of him hoped it wasn't. "Lots of characters in _Lord of the Rings_ end up living absurdly long, you know. Because they've got long life spans, and don't age as quickly as normal men."

"Okay?"

He winced, and sat up. "Hey," he said brightly, trying to smile and failing. "Why don't we watch them some time?"

"Armin," she said dully, "They're each three hours long."

"Well, yes…"

Historia sighed, and she pushed herself to her feet. "Okay," she said distantly. "We'll watch them. Sometime. I'm going to go to bed."

"Sure," Armin had said, watching her leave the room and feeling as though he'd made a grave mistake somewhere in speaking to her. _Why is it so hard to connect with a girl who could be my only living blood relative?_ It was infuriating, but also disheartening. And perhaps it was for the best.

Now he was perched on his desk, crouched so that his cramping toes were supporting his entire body, and he hummed an old tune that had caught in his head somewhere between crawling atop his desk, kicking away all his research and notes and old, dull paintings, and now, drawing swirling red roses upon the wall. His head was aching terribly, and he was a little dizzy, and a little nauseous, but his stomach was so painfully empty that it made a deep, ravenous snarling sound. He'd been doing this for… how long? It had not been so light in the room when he had started, he remembered suddenly, fog parting slowly to allow memories to seep back into his mind. No, it had been rather dark. His legs were absolutely ablaze with pain, though, cramped to the point where his eyes watered from the dull pain.

"I'm remembering," Armin sighed loftily, his voice thick in his throat. "I think I am, anyway. Oh, how did that stupid song go?"

Mikasa sighed behind him. The sound of the sharpie squeaking against his wall was frightful, and it gnawed at his foggy mind, biting at his brain like a rabid dog. "That stupid song," she said with a groan. "It's a nursery rhyme! Why dwell on it?"

"It's important," Armin whispered, staring at his pale wall as his shaky hand colored in a red, red, bleeding red rose. There were hundreds of them, Armin saw, coming slowly to his senses. Hundreds of roses on his walls. _What was I trying to remember?_ "You must remember it, I used to sing it for you. Remember? I do." He paused, his finger tips swiping across the surface of his walls. His mind was suddenly opening up, like the sun had broken through a fissure in his skull and burst through the fog clouding his thoughts. Oh, what was he _doing_? His hand was cramping. "_Meine H__ä__nde, meine H__ä__nde_…"

"Your hand is not disappearing," Mikasa sighed. "That song only clouds your mind more."

"No," he whispered. "It helps. It helps me remember."

"Is that why you're crouched up on that desk, scrawling little pictures onto your walls and whispering on and on about things no one but you understands?" Mikasa sounded concerned, and Armin paused in his stressful attempt to turn his entire room a great, wilting red. He twisted his body around to face her, utterly aghast at her words. If she didn't get it, she could just go away! "You shouldn't want to remember things if you get like this just to get a little glimpse. You're better off not knowing."

He felt as though he was about to fall to shambles. Mikasa was not helping him, and her presence was more of a nuisance than a comfort. That was unusual, because Armin knew Mikasa was able to sense his unease from across the house, and yet here she was feeding him terrible thoughts and feelings, and he couldn't sense a single thing from her mind. He crouched, sharpie clenched in hand, and he watched this girl, this friend that tilted her head, hair curling around smiling lips, and oh, why was she smiling?

"I could never be better off not knowing," Armin said, his mind growing clearer with every word he spoke. Mikasa shook her head, clearly unfazed by him or his words or his bleeding red flowers.

"You have no regard for yourself," she whispered, staring at him with a strange gleam in her dark eyes. Armin's crouch broke, and he fell upon his knees as the door burst open, and a rush of thoughts crashed into his mind, streaming through the foggy daze and grappling at his consciousness, dragging him out and snarling at him. _Armin_, Mikasa thought, _what the hell? Armin?_

Mikasa stood in the doorway, dressed in full school uniform, her scarf pooling around her lips, which were parted as she stared at him. Armin stared right back, his own mouth parting in absolute shock. "Armin?" Mikasa said aloud, much less aggressively than in her head. "What are you doing?" Her eyes roved the room, and flashed in minute horror. "What have you done?"

The other Mikasa in the room threw her head back and laughed. Armin's heart was beating fast, thundering against his ribcage in a furious, cracking sort of rhythm that stole his breath and forced him to choke on any words that rose like vomit in his throat. Two Mikasas stood before him, one gaping at him, red scarf tossed across one shoulder, a plaid skirt wavering at her knees, and another standing, just standing, laughing, just laughing, and fluttering in and out of focus like a faulty image on an old television screen. If he had not gotten some vague grasp on his mind, he might have screamed. Because oh, he wanted to scream.

He really wanted to scream.

"Armin," Mikasa whispered, stopping only inches from his desk. Morning light pooled into the room, splashing across her slim face, worry illuminated by a gracious white sun. Clouds parted for Armin's thoughts to spill through into his eyes. He saw now what he was doing. He felt tears well inside his eyes, and the marker dropped from his fingers, clattering against the desk as he stared at both Mikasas fearfully. "Oh, Armin…"

_Help_, Armin thought to her weakly. He didn't know if he could move from the desk, he was so terrified. He watched her arms stretch out to him, pale in the white sunlight, and his mind broke utterly free of the madness that was the fog, the spell that had been cast upon him by a sleepless night and a vicious headache.

"No," he gasped suddenly, twisting away from her outstretched hands. He slipped from the desk, his knees wobbling as he struggled and gasped, tears streaking his cheeks, and he flinched away from Mikasa's touch when she tried to help him. "I said no!" He shot her a sharp, warning glare, and she took a step back. "I'm okay! I can stand on my own, okay?"

"Armin," she said softly, "I don't doubt that's true. But I can feel your pain. Don't you understand? You send out your pain and confusion like you're tossing crumpled paper into a garbage bin." Those words, that simile, that comparison was not Mikasa's. She was taking words from his mouth, pulling thoughts from his scrambled mind, and it was scary. "I can't ignore your pain. You can't expect me to just let you hurt, not when I know exactly what you're feeling."

"If I'm sending out my feelings," he said thickly, a sob crawling and creeping around inside his throat, "then why are you the only one responding? Your room isn't the closest to mine. Why are you the only one who feels whatever I'm feeling?"

"Because you never severed the link," Mikasa answered simply. "I'm sure Eren feels it too, but he's angry with you. Do you feel that?"

"His anger?" Armin smiled thinly through his tears. "Oh, I feel it. He thinks it's somehow my fault that Ymir got away, because I should have read her mind and figured out what she did." He laughed, and the Mikasa by the door laughed with him.

"It's true, though," the Mikasa by the door said. "You knew what Ymir did, and you said nothing. Is that right? Am I right?"

"It's true, though," Armin gasped, his eyes growing wide with terror and pain. "Oh, god, Mikasa, it's true. I knew Ymir killed someone in a fire, I saw it, but I… I said nothing." His chest felt tight, and he clapped his hands over his eyes, his legs trembling as they supported him feebly. Tears splashed against his red stained fingers. "Mikasa… Mikasa, I think… I think I'm…"

"Don't you dare," Mikasa snapped, "say you're losing your mind."

_I'm a disaster_, Armin thought, watching Mikasa's eyebrows rise. He leaned against his desk for support, and his breath caught in his throat as he spoke. "Mikasa, I'm seeing things," he whispered, wiping at his eyes weakly. She stared at him, dark eyes frozen upon his damp face. "I know you love me. I feel that. But listen to me speak. Listen to my thoughts. I'm seeing_ terrible_ things." His eyes drifted to the Mikasa by the doorway, who was standing with her arms folded, and her eyes raised to the ceiling. She looked bored with this conversation. "It's scaring me."

"I feel that," she whispered, taking a step toward him. "I feel how terrified you are, and I need you to let me help you." He let her pull his chin, and she dashed his tears away with nimble fingers. Her touch was warm, and the taste of peppermint tea was mingling with the bleeding taste of warm milk spiked with crushed coffee beans. Mikasa's feelings of love were muddling her own personal presence, and the two tastes conflicted and meshed, bouncing away from one another and somehow connecting seamlessly in a warm trickling contradiction.

"You're ignoring what I'm saying," Armin mumbled into her hand. "I can't sleep. I can't eat. I feel like there's something inside me that wants to get out, but it's trapped inside my skull. It's pounding its little fists against the walls of my brain. It's alive, and it hurts." He blinked as she pulled him to her, and he inhaled the scent of her scarf. He had to get ready for school, he realized with a sudden wave of dread. It was their first day back, and they would have to deal with the fact that both Annie and Ymir had amber alerts out for them. Hange was getting a lot of unneeded attention for that, but their logic had been sound. By making it clear that they were missing, it shed a good deal of blame from them if anyone were to find out at a later time, and it also put both girls in a peculiar position. They'd find it difficult to get by on their own with an entire country aware of their presence.

_I'll stay home with you_, Mikasa thought to him, resting her chin against his hair. _You can sleep, and I'll keep watch. Nothing will hurt you, not while I'm here_.

"I want to go to school, though," he moaned into her shoulder, her scarf tickling his nostrils. "This is the first morning in forever that I haven't thrown up."

"All the more reason to take care of yourself, and go to sleep." Mikasa pulled back from him, and she glowered up at the wall. Roses bled against the white morning light, stained a pure color, like pink swirls whirling across the face of the paint. "Don't tell me you were at that all night."

"I don't remember starting," he mumbled. "Or falling asleep. Isn't that terrible?"

"You're keeping something from me."

Armin looked at her, her words plain and simple, unbiased and easy. She didn't sound offended, and she didn't feel offended, and she was merely stating a fact that she had observed, plucked from his muddled brain, or deduced from his lack of communication.

"That's true," he said wanly, unable to lie to her any longer. "But I need some things to be my own, Mikasa, you understand that, right?"

"You don't seem to have any care for anyone else's privacy," she said, again unbiased and uncaring. She didn't feel particularly hurt that he was hiding something from her, which stunned and excited him. If Eren knew… well, Eren would probably hate him even more. _He doesn't hate me_, Armin had to remind himself. _He's just angry_. "Is it what you see? The terrible things? I'm sure I can handle seeing them if they're not really there. You should let me see them."

Armin had to guard his relief that she didn't suspect Historia's involvement with his distance. He sighed, and rubbed his sweaty forehead. "They're not scary images, usually…" He checked his clock, and winced. "I mean, it's just the fact that I'm having… hallucinations. Do you think I could get medication for that? I'd feel a lot better if they'd go away."

"You can talk to Erwin about that," she said, rubbing his hair affectionately. "Are you sure you want to go to school today? You should give your head a rest."

"For the sake of my head," Armin said, leaning into her touch, "I'm going to go to school. And hope for the best."

_You're so brave_, she thought. Armin looked up at her sharply, shocked by her sweet thought, and he watched her lips curl gently. She turned from him, leaving the warmth of her presence and the taste of peppermint tea and coffee spiked milk, and the love that she had made so clear was soothing to his aching brain. He was so glad to have her. He was so glad that someone loved him the way that she loved him, because otherwise he was certain he would consider himself a cursed boy, cursed with loss and cursed with longing. He was so loved. And felt that now, with this new spiking development in his powers. He felt that he was loved, and he felt himself bleed love too.

He was fortunate in that, at least.

He got dressed hastily, dizzy and a little nauseous, but feeling better than one might expect after hours of crouching on a desk and doodling on a wall. He tossed his sweater on, throwing one last glance at the crawling roses that scarred his memory and burned his eyes, and he scowled. He didn't remember a thing from this. It was terrifying, and it was pointless. His mind was still a great mass of fog reaching from his ten year old self and spilling backwards.

_Mikasa_, Armin called through their mindlink. _Can you help me paint over the roses later?_

_Sure_.

Levi glared at him as he stumbled into the car, squeezing beside Historia. She stared straight ahead, but he felt her go rigid at his close proximity. It was times like these that he wished he could reach her mind, just to tell her that it was okay, that he was weirded out too. But he couldn't. He was stuck with his shoulder squished against hers, and a blinding headache, and exhaustion creeping around his weathered mind. This was going to be a long day.

Levi pulled Eren aside on their way into school, and Armin kept walking, because he sensed Levi watching his back. Armin was curious, though, so he tuned into his link with Eren, He wondered if he could do it without alerting Eren, and it wasn't as difficult as he had thought it would be. He'd assumed that the distance would hinder the connection, but it didn't. Armin slipped easily into Eren's head, dark chocolate breaking against his teeth as he moved around inside Eren's furious brain, adjusting to this strange way of connecting and settling as he listened to Levi speak, the words a distant thrum of cigarette smoke bursting against Armin's face. Through Eren's eyes, the world seemed so much brighter, and Armin stumbled momentarily in his own steps, because that was not a clarity he was used to. There was no fog in Eren's mind.

"I'm not stupid," Eren sighed, and his worry hit Armin very hard, tasting sour and sad, bitter chocolate growing hard to swallow. "I know something's wrong, okay?"

"Yeah, well," Levi said, his blue eyes flickering toward Armin's back, "you're being a real brat about it, kid. Even Erwin's noticed. And Erwin doesn't exactly give much of a shit for your petty teenage feelings. I know that you're angry, and you have a right to be, yeah, okay. But you're not angry at Armin. You know it. You're just taking it out on him 'cause you're an asshole." Levi sniffed, and he turned his attention elsewhere. "Also, Mikasa told me she's thinking about dangling you from one of the upper floor windows if you don't quit it. Just a fair warning. You won't be able to stop her if she really wants to."

"Mikasa can do whatever she wants to me," Eren declared. "It doesn't erase the fact that my best friend is hiding things from me. _Right_, Armin?"

_Oh, fuck_, Armin thought numbly, pulling out of Eren's mind. Eren held onto him, mentally latching onto Armin and dragging him back into his head. It was jostling, like having a bit of his heart torn away an stuck inside a container, just to be rattled and throttled, for the beat of it made a musical sound. Drums sang inside Eren's head. A bit of Armin's heart was stuck there. _Shit. I'm sorry, Eren. I'm so sorry_.

"What?" Levi blinked vacantly. "Is that little shit listening?"

"Yeah," Eren said. "He's like, in my head, I guess? He thought I didn't notice. Like I can't taste him, or anything."

"You can _taste_ him?" Levi's nose scrunched up in absolute disgust, and he whirled around. "Gross. Tell Mikasa that she should stick that little shit out a window instead."

Eren actually laughed, and the sweetness of that, the secondhand warmth of it burned Armin's head and made his chest ache. "That," Eren said brightly, "is definitely not something that'll happen while either of us are alive."

"You're disgustingly loyal to a kid who steals into your mind," Levi said.

"Yeah," Eren admitted sheepishly. "To a fault."

_Eren_, Armin thought, entering the school. He was astonished at the distance between them. This link was still absurdly strong, and Armin could still see out of Eren's eyes. _I never meant to hurt you like this, you know that, right? I'm so sorry, I didn't know. I was trying to figure things out. I didn't know it was your mother. We all are keeping things from each other, and I guess we just… need to communicate more. I'm so sorry._

There was an expansive sort of silence that rung inside Armin's head sadly. Eren's grip on Armin loosened, and suddenly Armin could not see through Eren's eyes anymore. It hurt that Eren had let him go. Eren's emotions were conflicted, ranging from furious to guilty, and the tastes were sour and sweet, sweat and songs bleeding together. Eren's thoughts were closed to Armin. His feelings became tightly covered by a layer of dust. Eren was giving Armin a message to stop.

Empathy was far more distracting than telepathy. At least with telepathy, thoughts were like frequencies that could be tuned in and out. Feelings were so different. They were everywhere, and they were in constant flux. Armin was having trouble breathing with all the tastes that clogged his mouth, with all the feelings that filled his battered heart, with all the emotions throttling in his head.

"You didn't throw up this morning," Historia noted, passing by him in the hall. Armin paused, watching her tiny face watch his, and it was so surreal to look at her and speak to her like this. How terrible it was that not throwing up was now considered a good morning. Even though he'd lost himself sometime during the night and woken up drawing on the walls.

"Nope," Armin said, turning his face away. The hallway was swarming with students bustling away, knocking into each other as they filed their way into their classrooms. "But the day's still young."

"Don't jinx it," she warned, her eyes narrowing at him. He looked at the tiny girl, his maybe older sister, and he smiled at her dimly.

"It's fine," he whispered, nodding to her once. "I'm fine right now."

Armin would have to tell Eren, of course, that Bertholdt had been involved with his mother's death just as much as Ymir. That would strike the inevitable question of Reiner and Bertholdt's trustworthiness. Armin was so tired, and he still did not see the entire picture. They all had information gathered in different ways, and now they were stuck with the uncertainty of who knew what. They hadn't had an actual meeting since they had planned the three missions. That felt like a lifetime ago.

He sat in History, rolling his pen between his fingers, and trying to recall the things he'd forgotten. He was at a disadvantage, of course, being amnesiac and at a mental state of unrest. He needed to sort out what exactly was wrong with him. He had suspicions, of course, but the list was too broad. It could be anything, or something that didn't even have a name. He was an anomaly because he had telepathy and empathy. He didn't have the privilege of being able to go see a doctor about this. He was too afraid to be touched, and too afraid of a diagnosis that would reveal too much about his mental abilities.

It seemed that Armin was just in a constant state of fear.

"— Armin?"

He jumped, straightening up in his seat as he turned his attention to his teacher. The man was watching Armin with narrowed eyes, and he smiled tightly as he gestured to the board. "Can you tell me how many people died during the Salem Witch Trials?"

"Um…" Armin's heart fluttered in shock for a moment, his mind drawing a blank. The Salem Witch Trials? No, he knew this. Why wasn't it coming to him? He sat under the scrutiny of his teacher, inadequacy creeping up on him. His thoughts and feelings were muddled with the frequencies and tastes of everyone around him, and he felt like they were pressing up against him, their skin ever so close, and it made him feel sick.

"Twenty six," Marco Bodt whispered into Armin's ear. His breath tickled Armin's neck, which was flushed from embarrassment and anxiety.

"Twenty six," Armin blurted, not knowing what else to say. His teacher stared at Armin bizarrely, his brow knitting as he tilted his head.

"No," he said cautiously. "Close! But no. Want to take another guess?"

"Oh," Marco sighed, "was that wrong? I'm sorry, Armin."

_Go away_, Armin thought, not able to look up at the dead boy beside him. _Please go away_.

The knowledge that it was a hallucination did not comfort him, nor did it help distinguish the mad vision from reality. Marco _felt_ real. His warm breath was hitting Armin's ear, crawling down his neck, and Armin could almost smell him, like something absurdly natural. Grass, maybe? Armin could almost taste the chocolate cookie dough, the melting of Marco Bodt's saccharine mind as it molded just right, always, without fail, and it was so confusing. He was so confused.

"You know," Marco murmured, too close to Armin, far too close, "you're pretty rude. Why should I have to go away? I like hanging around you."

"Armin?" His teacher was growing impatient, and Armin could sense his thoughts growing somewhat concerned, because Armin was a perfect student. If not a little distant. The man felt of concern, and irritation. Armin should be able to get this. Armin was a smart boy. "Okay, I'll make it simpler. How many people were hanged during the Salem Witch Trials?"

"Twenty one," Marco said evenly.

"Twenty—" Armin said in the same tone. He cut himself off with widening eyes, his mind shaking him, throttling him. Fog was clogging his thoughts. And his thoughts knew that wasn't right. "No. Nineteen. Nineteen people were hanged. One was pressed to death. Um… Giles Corey!" Armin resisted the impulse to hold his aching head. His thoughts were words floating up to the surface of his brain. Bobbing on the turbulent waters. There was a crashing flood drowning all senses inside him. It was like Annie's power had finally thawed inside his brain, and now his mind was waterlogged.

"Yes," his teacher said nodding. "Nineteen people were hanged. Now, can anyone tell me why that is?"

"That's a silly question," Marco sighed. Armin noticed Marco was kneeling so he was closer to Armin, and he edged carefully away, his eyes darting from Marco's face to his teacher's. "Don't you think?"

Armin wanted to bang his head against the desk until his skull shattered and bits of bone and brain matter spilled across it. He glared at Marco, and then turned his attention fully away from the dead boy. Instead he focused on his hands. His gloves were on, of course, but that was nothing new. Dark blue, warm, and safe. Gloves were a good way to cope. If no one touched him, no one could hurt him!

Which, of course, was a terrible lie. Annie hurt him without touching him. Her mind was poisonous, and so achingly interesting, Armin wished he had seen more of it. He was a masochist, yes, but he could still taste her springtime frost, and he wondered why she had tasted so sad when he had left her to her own escape the night she had murdered Marco.

"You don't mind the bad in her," Marco whispered. "That's kind of you. You should convince Jean to hate her less."

Yes, that was true enough. Jean despised Annie, with good reason, but there was also a soft affection for the girl he had not really known. A soft hurt from her betrayal. Jean was a terribly idealistic realist. It was actually almost funny. They were just the opposite, in truth. Armin held onto some sense of idealism while being riddled with a straining concept of realism. He held onto ideals because he wanted to believe that things could get better, but he was certain of how much worse things could get. It was exhausting.

His palms were sweating. It was an itchy sort of sweat, the kind that made him keenly aware of the skin itchy against the worn fabric of his gloves. He fidgeted, his palms flattening against the desk and itching more, skin prickling at the bizarre sensation, as if someone with chilly, spindly fingers had drawn their craggy, elongated nails across the flesh of his hands. He was feeling anxious, his heels bouncing against the linoleum, his eyes darting from his hands to the desk to his hands to the board to his hands to Marco to his hands, to his hands, to his itching, scratching hands.

His heart was beating hard against his ribs. His toes curled, his hands shook, his mouth went dry. He was having trouble focusing, and it was clouding his already too muddled brain. He wanted this itching, this anxiety and confusion, to just go away. He wanted to be free of whatever this was. This condition.

Armin peeled back his gloves, exposing his hands to the strange rush of air that went running to meet them. He rubbed them together, staring vacantly ahead, letting his mind wander away from the Salem Witch Trials and the warm breath of a dead boy creeping down his neck. He rubbed his hands because they itched, because he was scared of something that wasn't real and that couldn't hurt him. Perhaps he was scared of his own skin, of the scratch of his skin and the throttling feeling of something crawling beneath it. Something was itching not on his hands, but beneath his hands, dancing on his nerves and tickling his muscle and twirling upon his bones.

Sensations were hard to follow. They were real, or they were not, and trying to determine that would only confuse him. He was living with something under his skin that he couldn't shake. He was, in all honesty, losing his mind, and it hurt. He was supposed to be the one who had everything together, but he was deteriorating so fast that he couldn't even see where all the pieces had gone. He was left to be half a boy, with half a mind, and half a heart to strain to feel anything on its own. He was empty, and he was terrified.

The feeling of a hand slipping into his was almost too much to bear.

Hallucinations shouldn't be so soft.

Warm.

Alive…? No!

Marco's thumb drew across Armin's bare knuckles, and that sensation made him feel sick. Circles rubbed against itching skin, and Armin stared forward, stared straight ahead, closing his mind to Mikasa's prying view. She couldn't know. She couldn't know how scared he was.

"You should rest," Marco whispered. "It won't help you any if you drop dead of exhaustion."

_This is all your fault_, Armin almost said. His mouth opened and snapped closed. He didn't glance at Marco no matter how tempted he was.

"I'm only giving you advice," the dead boy sighed, still running his fingers across Armin's hand. Armin pulled back, his shaky hands dropping into his lap. Marco's fingers hovered in midair before him, long and dark. "Honestly. You'd be better off not ending up like me."

"Dead," Armin whispered before he could stop himself. He didn't bother looking around. No one had heard him. But the idea that it had slipped made his stomach twist into knots.

Marco laughed, and he drew away from Armin too, stretching backwards. "Yeah, yeah," Marco giggled, "dead. And, also, regretful. You are going to regret so much, you know. Sooner or later, you'll look back on what you're doing now and think you were the biggest fool."

Armin couldn't help but think that he already was. It was plain stupidity to neglect one's health as Armin was currently doing. However, he wasn't doing it because he was convinced that it couldn't be true. He was doing it because he knew deep down there was something gravely wrong, and if he did not put a name to it, it could not hurt him.

He also knew this logic to be completely false, but just because he knew something didn't mean he had to believe it. He was comfortable just pushing away his problems until he had no choice but to address them. Like he had with Mikasa that morning. Yes, he was losing his mind. No. She did not believe him.

There was something crawling on his hands.

Armin felt it, strangely, and it crawled and itched across the surface of his skin like little legs dancing across his open palms. He flattened them against the desk and stared, his lips trembling in shock. Why? Why couldn't the words just leave him alone? He was haunted by ghosts of friends and ghosts of words, things that had died while pressing to his foggy mind.

His hands were open, and ink was sprawling.

_Not real_, Armin told himself. _Not real. Not real_.

It hurt to stare at the ink as it made strange looping patterns across the grooves of his shaky fingers, spilling across his skin in a great blot of black that thinned out and swirled delicately to form a word, or another, something that Armin couldn't focus upon because his throat was constricting and his head was throbbing. It wasn't fair.

"Armin," Marco said. Armin blocked his mind to any and all. Armin blocked his mind to himself. He was trapped in a maze of memories, and he was tripping over fog. And ice. And something bubbling up in the darkness, a great mass. A growth, a terrible bulbous mountain of hate and confusion. And lies. So many lies.

The words were squigglies, sweet little child's hand scrawled across little bony fingers. Historia would recognize the hand as his own. Eren would. But Armin did not remember his childhood. He remembered only pain. And he wanted to forget that like he forgot the rest. His eyes were widening, and his shoulders were shaking, and he was finding it harder to breathe as the ink on his hands twisted and twirled, a dance of lettering across white palms.

_No, no, no, this isn't right, this shouldn't be happening!_

A resigned part of Armin watched the panicked part go wild. He sat with his eyes glued to the forming words, the lettering and the ink and the lies that were becoming truths, and he was bitter. It wasn't fair.

_But it is_.

Armin choked on the bitter realization that the words were morphing to suit his mind, and his mind was suddenly erratic, and Armin was frightened because these were not words from anything he had ever read, and these were not words that he had ever said, and this was his voice echoing inside his head, words buried beneath a white satin lie, a funeral shroud for boy waiting to die in a white room, with fearful, tearful white eyes and a sunken white face, and there was pressure on his knuckles as a tiny hand closed around them, a tiny white, sunken face surfacing in the bitter sea of words that was his scrambled memory, and that face was familiar, and so were the words that had etched themselves into his skin with the wobbly script of his own hand, tattooed with ethereal ink and quaking with the rhythm of his trembling bones.

_memento mori memento mori memento mori_

He raised his shaky fingers to his face, turning his hand about to get a look at it all around. Black ink was scrawled plainly against his chapped white skin. Red stained his fingertips, a mark of his morning mishap, and he watched little letters neatly pour over the crimson smudges. He was choking on this world of words, and he felt eyes on him as he shook and shook and flipped his hands to and fro— front and back, front and back, knuckles and palms, pale nails and red finger pads. Words! His world was nothing but a gruesome wave of bloody words lashing out at him! The tastes were words! The lies, they were words! The memories he could not reach, the feelings he could not grasp, they were all stupid, startling, stinging words! He wasn't strong enough to stand against such striking songs— his own songs, his own thoughts spun into sweet, somber songs.

_memento mori memento mori memento mori_

"No," he whispered. He didn't want to remember. Marco was right! He was better off forgetting.

It was painful to remember.

There was a little boy sitting before him with brown skin and salient green eyes, like sea foam crystallized around a hollow center. The boy blinked in the memory, limp brown hair fluttering across his brow. He was settled in a limp heap of immobile limbs and fallen crutches. Tears were glistening against the tightly knit crystalline structure of his bold green eyes, and he glared ahead in defiance. His dark face was so numbingly transparent, Armin could sense exactly what the boy had been thinking without tasting or hearing or feeling it.

The boy had dared Armin to question his tears.

Armin recalled bending down and plucking up the crutches. "Stand up, Eren," he had said, tucking both crutches under his arm.

And Eren, awed and pained, did just that. His endurance, Armin recalled, had been the most amazing thing. He could stand even on his worst days. He said it didn't matter, and that he'd rather use his legs whenever he could, so long as he still had legs to move. So he willed himself to stand. And the boy stood before Armin, his braces holding him upright as he glowered. Tear tracks traced his flushed cheeks.

"Here," Armin had said, offering back the boy's crutches. Eren had shifted his disdain from Armin's face to the crutches. "Well, go on. You need them, don't you?"

Eren gave a sharp, bitter laugh. "Oh, _yeah_!" He grinned, and it was a snarl. "Not for much longer, apparently!"

"Oh!" Armin remembered now the feeling of relief. Eren was going to heal. That was good. That was so good to hear. "Are you getting the braces off soon, then?"

"Nope!" Eren's eyes were alight with his rage. "I'm gonna lose all the use of my legs, Armin. Innit that just _great_? My mama, she's talkin' to my dad right now, 'cause he's gotta tell her. He dumped me in here 'cause he thought it'd do me some good to be with other kids. He's such a jackass!" Eren's fists balled at his side, and he let out a wordless cry of frustration. He tried to kick at the air, but Armin had shoved the crutched into the boy's chest to stop him. Eren had merely took them, and continued on with his furious words, acid spilling from his lips in vicious syllables. "This place isn't even a hospital! Why am I even here? Why is my dad here? Why are you and Mikasa the only ever kids I get to play with?"

"What do you mean?" Armin had asked, anxiety clutching at him. Even then he had been lying to Eren.

"I mean," Eren cried, waving his crutches and wobbling a little, "I've seen that girl who always follows you around! The one with the scarf."

"Mikasa…?"

"No!" Eren rolled his eyes, and snorted. "No way, I gave Mikasa that scarf, and I kinda already know her! I mean, the girl with the scarf around her head. I didn't get to see her face, but she was talking to you last week when I came, and she was with you the week before too, when my dad came to get you for your like, therapy, or whatever. And I know there are more kids here!"

"Oh," Armin had exhaled, his heart clenching. "Annie. You mean Annie."

"Sure?"

It was strange to think about Annie now as she was back then. Fog clung to the very whisper of her name. She was not a safe topic to breech, and yet she was too interesting to let lay. Armin wanted to know.

"Annie doesn't like people," Armin had sighed. "If she played with you she'd probably try to strangle you."

"Sounds like fun."

"Eren," he reprimanded, feeling guilty for lying. Annie wouldn't strangle him. In fact, Annie wanted to play with them too. She wasn't allowed, though. Dr. Jaeger's orders.

"I'm going to be in a wheelchair before I'm twelve," Eren said suddenly, raising his dry eyes to Armin. He assessed him with a fury that Armin could not possibly placate on his own. "That's what they told."

In his heart, he felt like crying. Both his child self, and his present self. Both had already known this fact. "That's awful," Armin had said mechanically. "I'm so—" _Enough lie_s, a voice inside Armin's head had hissed_. Tell him the truth. Just tell him about it. He'll get it. He understands! He's just like you!_ "I…" Tears stung his eyes suddenly. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair!

"You…?" Eren held Armin by the hand, and he shook him a little. "Are you okay? Your skin's all clammy and warm."

"Headache," Armin mumbled, pulling his hand back and rubbing his splitting head. He smiled dimly. "Eren… Eren, I hate it here…" Armin was crying freely now, shaking miserably as he stepped back. "I think I'm going to die in here… I'm scared I'm going to die in this place…"

A future Armin felt compelled to pat his past self on the head and cry, "You didn't! You're free now! Please, please, please don't cry anymore, please…"

Eren was suddenly very acutely aware of what Armin was saying. "Are they holding you prisoner?" Eren whispered urgently. "Do you need to break out? Me and Mikasa can—"

"Eren," Armin gasped, teary eyed and laughing. "Eren! You don't get it! It's amazing how you haven't gotten it, really, it's staring you right in the face!" Armin stumbled away from Eren and washed his face in his hands. "We're dying! Me, and Annie, and the others. And you. You're dying too, Eren. Just at a slower rate."

Eren had merely stood, legs stuck in braces and crutches holding him upright. "What?" he had whispered. "You…? No. That's not possible. You can't—!"

"I've been trying not to tell you," Armin sobbed, "I didn't wanna ups-s-set you, y'know? You're nice to me, and y-y-you don't treat me like I'm something fragile, you… you think I'm strong!" He laughed, a mangled shriek amongst his strangled sobs. "I can't even walk in a straight line! I'm not s-s-strong, I'm… I'm—!"

"Armin…" Eren had said quietly, awed and confused by the abrupt change in Armin's attitude. "You won't die in here."

"Yes I will," Armin whispered miserably. "I haven't got anywhere else. They took my mom away, Eren, and I can't remember… when… or why… or even her face…" He recalled the feeling of absolute desolation. He was desperate for feeling, and for some semblance of kinship. "I'm so tired… and I'm so sick of this. I'm sorry I didn't tell you, I… I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize for that," Eren said weakly, his eyes darting across Armin's face. "I'm not mad at you, or anything."

Armin had sniffled, and wiped cautiously at his tears. "Y-you aren't?"

"Dude," Eren said, blinking confusedly. "Armin, for someone so smart, you can be really stupid."

"W-wha…?"

Eren had hugged him then, taking pained steps to reach Armin and throw his arms around his shoulders. "You're not gonna die," Eren assured him. "Me and you, we're gonna beat it. We're not gonna let stuff like, like muscular dystoppy, or whatever you've got get us."

"Muscular dystrophy," Armin corrected weakly.

"What_ever_," Eren had groaned. "These dumb things have too many long words! Why don't they just call it the leg eating disease?"

"Because that's not what it is?"

"Armin," Eren had said, shifting his grip so only one arm was slung around Armin's shoulders. "You're gonna live."

_I'm gonna live_.

_**I'm gonna live**_.

_memento mori memento mori memento mori_

Later, as Armin recalled, Annie had sat beside him, her gaunt face searching his. They were beginning to look alike. They had the same hollowed look in their eyes now. Then. Now? Armin was presently mulling over the thought of Annie's face as it had been when she had fled her crime scene. She'd been so scared, and it was jarring because Annie was too stoic to be scared. Even back then.

"Today Eren told me," Armin had said, "that I'm gonna live."

Annie had nodded, her vacant eyes drawing away from his face. Her scarf was folded in hands, and Armin saw, delighted but disheartened, that her hair was growing back.

"Do you believe that?" she asked. Annie sought Armin out only when she was scared, he knew, because she wasn't scared of Armin or how Armin thought of her. With Reiner and Bertholdt she feared their worry, to the point where they had no worry left for themselves. She'd often complained about that.

"No," Armin said. "But it's a nice thought, isn't it?"

"I guess."

"It's nice to think about living," Armin had mused aloud. "But it's scary too."

"I guess…"

"Annie," Armin had said, unable to look at her. His head and heart were beating in a struggling rhythm. "Do you believe what they say? That they'll make us stronger?"

"Yes," she said dimly. Her tiny knuckles were white as she clutched her scarf. "But I don't think it'll be in the ways that we want."

"Oh," Armin said. "Do you think we have any choice?"

"No." Annie had sighed, and that sigh echoed in the recesses of Armin's poor aching mind. "But even if we did, it wouldn't matter. I don't want to die."

Armin had sat beside her, feeling lost in this sad ache that hummed inside his chest and pounded inside his brain. "Neither do I," he had said numbly, brain splitting, heart racing, body shaking. "I want to live."

_memento mori memento mori memento mori_

His shaky hands wrote memories and spilled them into his pounding head. He was sickened by it all, sickened and exhausted, and he knew now without a doubt. He understood his memory problems, and understood why Marco had warned him. It hurt to remember such painful things.

"I remember," he gasped, his eyes darting across the repetition of dark words.

"What are you doing?" Marco asked slowly. Tentatively. "Armin?"

Armin felt like he could laugh. He _felt_ like it, but of course he didn't. He was too shocked, too pained, too _angry_. How had it not occurred to him before? He was stupid, he was so stupid!

"Armin?"

If Armin were as smart as everyone told him he was, he would have been ruthless. Armin should never have let his power go to waste. He should have torn up the minds around him from the roots to understand what the hell had happened to him and everyone else. He shouldn't have let Ymir get away, and he should have realized! He should have _known_!

His conscience was a nuisance.

Why, then, couldn't he just let it go?

"Armin, stop. Armin, look at me." Marco's voice was a distant clap of thunder in the raging downpour that clogged Armin's head. "Armin!"

"Shut up!" Armin cried, chalk screeching between his fingers as he drove a line down the face of the blackboard. He stood and stared at his words, his heart pounding in his mouth. He felt dizzy, and his limbs felt heavy and loose, like they were about to crumble away from his body. "Stop talking. Stop—!"

"Armin," Marco said gently. "Look. Look at what you're doing."

"I don't…" Armin looked. He saw. Chalk clattered to the floor.

Armin didn't know what to do or what to say and his head was cracking open, and he felt like all the things that had been buried in his life were just building up, waiting to pour over his overheating brain like magma. He laughed weakly, bitterly, and stumbled back in shock. Memento mori. _Memento mori_.

The entire chalkboard was covered in his careful handwriting, a swirling mass of one Latin phrase converging on the center of the blackboard, a pit of empty space. A pupil. An eye. He'd written his words into the shape of an eye. They were still staining his hands an inky black. And he was shaking so terribly, feeling the stares around him and feeding off their feelings of confusion and apprehension, tasting their glazed worry and sour fear.

Memento mori.

"Oh," he said.

His teacher's thoughts were very clipped. Very neat. They tasted incredulous, vaguely chilly and vaguely tart. _What the fuck is wrong with this kid?_

If only he knew.

"You know," Marco sighed, "if you think you're crazy, you'll probably make yourself crazy."

"I'm not crazy," Armin whispered.

"Tell that to them."

Armin turned his face uncertainly to his class. He was standing at the very front, his body all but pressed to the chalkboard. They were all gaping at him, some kids half out of their desks as though to run at him, or run out the door. Shame crept upon him, and his chest constricted as he ran through possible excuses for this blunder. He had none. He was either crazy, or he was a freak.

Neither was far from the truth.

"I'm not crazy," Armin said, louder this time. His voice broke as it sailed across their heads. They merely stared at him, empty eyed, thoughts reeling in disbelief. _Of course you're crazy_, their minds whispered in unison. Acrid words dug into his tongue.

"Well," Marco laughed, "you _are_ talking to yourself!"

Armin inhaled sharply, and it hurt. He realized, startled, he was crying. He wiped at his cheeks, which had gone bright red as a result of his tears and humiliation. What was he supposed to do? His head hurt so much, and he'd remembered. He remembered something so crucial about the institution. He was going to scream.

He wanted to scream.

Why wasn't he screaming yet?

Memento mori.

"Oh," he said, his eyes widening. He'd gone numb. His head was nothing but a drum beat vibrating in the distance. "Oh no. Oh no, oh no, oh no—"

"What?" Marco asked.

"I told you to shut up!" Armin snapped, whirling around to look back at his monstrous, ominous eye.

"You're being rude," Marco said coolly. "Why can't you just be a good boy for once, and stop meddling about in things you shouldn't?"

"Because," Armin whispered, "because you're not real."

"Isn't that a matter of perspective?" Marco laughed.

"No!" Armin rounded on the boy, his eyes flashing dangerous. "No! You're dead! You died! You're not real, you're just— just my imagination!"

"Oh, is that what I am?" Marco blinked, his warm eyes glittering with a sense of wonder and curiosity. "You should stop yelling. It's not very nice, and you're distracting all your peers from the lesson."

Armin was aware that everyone was staring at him. He knew it, and he didn't care. He was beyond the point of caring. He took one last look at his reminder, and he turned toward the door.

"What are you doing now?" Marco sighed. "Are you going to leave? That's rather dramatic."

"Dramatic?" Armin could hear thoughts being thrown at him, words of worry and fear and judgment. _He's crazy_, their minds whispered. _He's lost his mind!_ "I can't think anymore. I can't do it. I can't think with all these things in my head, and especially not with a dead boy breathing down my neck all the time. Just leave me alone!"

"But why?" Marco gasped. "You're so fun to be around!"

Armin was shaking very badly. His knees were wobbling, and his fingers were jerking, and every step sent his body into a jolt. His heart leapt into his throat, and he wished he could understand just a little bit more. The variables were beginning to fall into place, but there was still something missing.

"You're dead," Armin repeated quietly. "You are dead. And I'm…" Armin glanced back at the blackboard. "I'm remembering."

"It's interesting to me," said Marco, "how you're talking to me without any care of how you're perceived by your peers. If you want them to believe you're not crazy, shouldn't you stop?"

"I don't need to prove my sanity," Armin said levelly. He was standing, shaky and close to sobs under the watchful eyes of his entire History class. He felt nauseous.

"You don't sound so sure," Marco whispered. He was standing at the door now. Somehow.

"I'm not sure of anything anymore." Armin forced himself forward, ignoring the audible sound of his teacher calling out to him. He had to ignore him. There was nothing Armin could do for the man but leave the class while he could still stand.

He tried the door, but he found it wouldn't budge. He blinked to the side, and saw that Marco was gone again. When he looked up he saw a flicker of freckles as a boy's face poked up into the rectangular window of the door. Marco's eyes were dark with concern, and Armin shook the doorknob furiously. He needed to get out of here. His heart was pounding, and his mouth had gone dry, and he was flushed with embarrassment and shaking so badly that his teeth were chattering.

"Let me out." Armin jostled the doorknob, feeling foolish and fearful. He stared at Marco, whose freckles stretched as a smile forced dimples to cave into his cheeks. He seemed too real, and yet Armin knew. He'd known for a very long time. He had put the pieces together, and lost the glue. "Let me out!"

"Calm down," Marco cooed. "You're only making this worse for yourself. Just take a deep breath, and—"

"I'm done listening to you," Armin spat. His ears were ringing. He took a step back, and his wobbly knees reminded him that he had no strength to kick down the door. He had no strength anywhere. He was a weak, sickly boy, and his mind was playing tricks on him. The door wasn't really locked. Marco wasn't really holding it. Marco was dead.

But Armin was still alive.

He needed to remember that.

And Armin, though weak and feeble in body, knew something very particular about himself.

His mind was _strong_.

The mental nudge was more like a mental avalanche, and he jerked his chin, watching in minute horror as the door was blown backwards, snapping at its hinges and cracking against a wall. Armin was close enough to the door that only the teacher would have seen that Armin had not been touching it. Armin knotted his mental grip into his teacher's frantic mind, and he yanked the most recent memory of watching Armin's mental power nearly blow the door off right out of the man's head. Armin felt that memory disintegrate, crumbling against his tongue in a flurry of ashes, and he felt the man's vague pain as he held his head and moaned.

Armin stood for a moment, disgusted and terrified.

He was invading minds and stealing thoughts and crushing them.

He was a monster underneath it all. It had never been a secret, but even so, Armin had tried to be as human as possible. He wanted to be a hero. Not this monstrous little thief that plucked away at minds and tore apart doorways and shouted at dead boys who weren't really there.

Armin whirled around and face his class, their vague faces all shocked and scared and startlingly aware of him. Their thoughts were mingled with confusion and awe and terror, all balled up into a mass of convoluted sparks that blew back into Armin's face and stung him. He exhaled, tears welling up in his eyes as he jerked his chin at them and tasted their minds, all of them, ribbons unraveling across his brain.

"_**Forget**_!" he shouted, blowing the single thought into each head and shattering their perception of him. Perhaps he would walk into class tomorrow, and none of them would know his name. They all stared at him, and they all screamed as one. Their minds were clawing at Armin's, and then they could not fight him anymore. They were strangled by ribbons and by one word.

Armin fled the room, tears streaking his cheeks, as he bolted down the hallway, his chest constricting and his head viciously chiseling away at his skull. He had difficulty seeing even a few feet in front of him, the world was such a hazy mist of ribbons and memories, and words stuck to his bare fingertips and churning outwards into a great wide world of empty space and empty people. He was going to die in here.

He threw himself at he first door he saw to be marked a bathroom, and he lurched toward the nearest sink and spilled his guts out. He puked as he did everyday, urgently emptying the lack of content inside his stomach into a porcelain dish, and feeling dizzy and broken afterwards, gasping and heaving and tear stained. He vomited again, buckled against the sink and falling to his knees, a sob perched upon his bile-slick tongue, and he spat into the sink, reaching blindly for the faucet. Five flicked on at once, spitting water into the air and into his face. His mind shuddered from the thrill of it, and his stomach stuttered and churned, sending a great flood of bile ripping up his throat. He gagged and spat and crumpled, resting his sweaty forehead against the cool glass basin of the sink, and his limbs began to jerk as his mind froze up, a smattering of emotions swelling inside him.

His fingers slipped from the glass sink, too sweaty to keep a good grip, and he wanted to scream but he found that he had no voice. His mind was fading away, and his body was quaking s badly that he was suddenly against the floor, and all sensations were driven by a force that Armin could not see. He couldn't speak or think or move, he just stared vacantly and let his power break free of the confinements of his poor, broken mind.

It lashed out.

Armin wasn't sure how long he ended up lying there, but he was still shaking by the time a pair of hands grasped him and rested his head somewhere soft. His mind had gone away, drifted someplace where it didn't hurt anymore, and his power had gone somewhere completely different. They separated, and then sprung back together, too attached to truly disjoint, but even so. He was growing so tired of this, and the sound of rushing water filled his ears, and his shaking turned to nothing, just limp limbs twisted against grimy tile, and Armin blinked.

He realized he was crying, but he couldn't manage to raise a hand to wipe his tears.

"Armin?"

He almost mistook the familiar voice for Marco. He was relieved when his foggy eyesight adjusted, and it was Eren's face staring down at him. Dark and painfully worried. Eren moved his hand uncertainly to Armin's forehead. His touch sent a shiver down Armin's spine, and his taste was like welcomed flood after a year of drought.

"Armin," Eren whispered, "hey, look at me. Don't look away. You see me, right? Nod if you do."

Armin could barely manage it, but he did. He nodded. Eren smiled, and he nodded, and then his expression turned sour. "Stay with me," Eren said fiercely, pulling Armin around the chest and yanking him upright. "It's over now. You… you're going to be okay."

"No…" Armin mumbled, his head lolling back. This was so strange. Not so long ago Armin had been pulling Eren out of a steaming mass of nerves, and he'd been in a similar state of bewilderment.

"Shut up," Eren hissed. "'Course you'll be okay. Dummy. Oh my god, your mind is a fucking mess, can you turn that off?"

"Mm…?" Armin blinked dazedly up at the ceiling. "Off…?"

He nodded, and his head throttled in response to that. Eren exhaled sharply in relieve, and he nodded against Armin's hair. "Good," he mumbled. "Mikasa's probably on her way here by now. You were screaming inside everyone's heads, I think."

"What…?"

"Nah." Eren pulled him closer. "Don't talk. Kay? I'm gonna call for help."

"No…"

"No?" Eren held Armin carefully, but he looked as though he wanted to throttle him. His brown knitted in such a way that Armin could count the wrinkles distorting Eren's forehead. "Oh, get the fuck over yourself. You need to see a doctor."

"I can't," Armin murmured, tears stinging his eyes. "I _can't_."

A new mind blasted through Armin's range as the door to the bathroom swung open, and a girl froze in the doorway. Her thoughts were muddled, confused, and Armin realized he must have thrown himself into the girl's bathroom by mistake. Whatever.

"What the hell?" the girl blurted. It must've been a strange sight, all the faucets running and overflowing the sinks, and two boys sprawled on the floor, one cradling the other.

"Yo!" Eren twisted to face the girl, and Armin closed his eyes. He wanted to go home and go to sleep, but he didn't think he'd be able to. "Get the principal, or— or like, someone, I don't care! He just had a seizure."

"What?" the girl uttered weakly.

Mikasa burst in behind her, her mind filling up Armin's with anger and unparalleled concern. Peppermint was stinging his tongue, mixing with the taste of bile and tears. She dropped down beside Eren, her hands pressing to his neck, then his forehead, checking his pulse and temperature quickly. Vitals, vitals. It was almost funny. Armin almost laughed. He buried his face in Eren's shoulder and began to cry instead.

"What happened?" Mikasa demanded.

"I don't know," Eren gasped, "I literally just walked in and he was having a fit on the floor. That's bad, ain't it? Seizures are bad!"

"Seizures can mean anything," Mikasa said calmly. "Armin, can you speak?"

"Yeah," he mumbled, unable to turn his face to her. "My… my everything hurts…"

"You're not still seeing things, are you?"

"Seein' things?" Eren asked sharply. "What the sweet hoppin' hell does that mean?"

It occurred to Armin just how out of the loop Eren was._ I've been having hallucinations_, Armin thought to Eren, reaching out and brushing their link gingerly. He didn't want to pry. He'd done enough prying for today. _They've gotten really bad. I can't ignore them. I interact. It's stupid, I know, but I can't help it. It's got me, Eren. It's in my head and under my skin, and I can't get it out_.

"What the fuck?" Eren's eyes flashed, and Armin listened to his teeth crack against each other in fury. "When did this start?"

"A few days ago," Armin said quietly, pushing himself upright. He wanted to be able to support himself, but he was dizzy and shaky and sick.

"Why didn't you _say_ anything?"

"Eren." Mikasa's voice was fierce and reprimanding. They were thankfully alone in the bathroom now. "Armin's feelings about this haven't been hidden from you. Have you really not been paying attention to his pain?"

Eren scoffed. "Well, it's not like I haven't felt it!" He sounded vaguely irritated by Mikasa's tone. "Armin's always in pain, okay? I didn't even think about— shit. I'm sorry, Armin. I've been a real ass."

"Yeah," Armin sighed. "So have I, though. So it's okay." Eren grinned suddenly, and Armin smiled back, his skin stretching tightly. He was reminded of something. "Eren…"

"What?"

The sound of rushing water made Armin's head spin, but he couldn't help but thing about how clogged his head had been earlier. It felt clearer now. It always felt clearer when Mikasa and Eren were around to share the burden. The link that tethered their minds was a strong one, made of steel and stone and standing stark on the murky fog that clung to Armin's brain.

"You had muscular dystrophy," Armin said, "when you were little. Right?"

"What?" Mikasa asked flatly. When Eren did not respond, tasting of confusion and awe, Mikasa rounded on him. "What does he mean, Eren?"

"Did you get that out of my head?" Eren said, sounding a little angry.

"No!" Armin shook his head, and shook it, and shook it, feeling it rattle. "No. I remembered. I remembered, Eren. _Memento mori_."

"Is that, like, Japanese?"

Mikasa swatted Eren over the head, and he groaned, bowing it in shame. "It's Latin," she said.

"I forgot so much," Armin whispered, staring down at his shaky white hands. The vague lettering had disappeared. He was glad. "But I remember this. These words, they're a reminder."

"Remember you will die," Mikasa said. Her eyes grew suddenly very wide. Eren's mouth fell open. They stared at each other, the three of them, each sitting on their knees on the bathroom floor, sinks overflowing around them.

"Remember_ who_ will die?" Eren's voice heightened in distress. Armin could only shake his head.

He had no answer.

* * *

_Uh, so like, I messed up for a few chapters and put the year as 2677 instead of 2766, which is a huge difference bc that is a century. That is an entire century. I don't even know what year that is in ad, hold on, let me check._

_1923_

_wait_

_jesus fuck, that's actually the year that's on all the ilse pictures lmao HAPPY ACCIDENTS OH MY GOD_

_oh, yeah, and armin's hallucinations got a whole lot worse._

_so there's that!_


	21. nothing is impossible for humankind

**nil moralibus ardui est**

**Salem, Oregon**

_a.d. viii Kalendas Novembres, 2766 A.U.C_

As a habit, Connie didn't lock the door. He always just figured, hey! There're like, five other people in the house who can do that! Why should he be responsible? This flawed sense of logic was probably what had landed him in a wheelchair six years ago. Oops. So, like any other day, when Connie came home to find the door unlocked, he thought nothing of it. He'd left the door unlocked that morning. Even if no one was home, it wasn't all that alarming.

It'd been quiet since his grandfather's funeral. He went patrolling with Sasha, but that was the extent of their heroing. Nothing big had really happened since Marco had died. Connie still wasn't sure what information had exactly been gathered that night. He just kinda felt like they were all sorta stuck in a knot, all tangled in different directions without any way of sorting themselves out. It was kinda infuriating.

Connie was wondering about the giant robots, but he didn't want to say anything. There had to be an explanation for them, but how was Connie to know? He'd fought them. He'd helped kidnapped the president. He'd done some real tough shit! Kinda. Okay, he had not done any tough shit, but he'd _tried_! Why wasn't anything making sense, anyway?

Not only that, but now Marigold was acting weird!

But that wasn't anything new, really. Mari was always weird.

He assumed from the silence that he was probably home alone. That meant two things. One, the fridge was his. He claimed it. Two, he could sing as loudly and obnoxiously off key as he wanted.

A bowl of leftover pasta was heating in the microwave, and he was in the middle of belting out some Lorde song or another, humming over the words he didn't know, when his cellphone rang. He broke off, and scooped up his phone, still humming under his breath as he answered with a quick, "_Bueno_?"

"_What_?" Jean was on the other line, and his voice was flat and incredulous. Connie couldn't help but laugh.

"Hey, Jean," Connie said. He pulled the steaming bowl of pasta from his microwave and winced, tossing it onto the counter and sucking at his mildly burned thumb and forefinger. "'Sup?"

"_Uh,_" Jean said, "_well… that's a funny story, actually_."

"Is it actually a funny story?" Connie dumped his scalding pasta into a plastic bowl and dumped the other bowl into the sink. Glasswear hurt! "Or are you gonna tell me someone died?"

"_No one died_," Jean said. "_Well, not yet, anyway_."

"Encouraging."

"_That's wasn't really a joke_," Jean sighed. "_Things just got really complicated. It's actually really annoying. Why does everyone have to be so cryptic_?"

"Dunno," Connie uttered through a mouthful of pasta. A fork wobbled between his teeth as he juggled his phone and his bowl, walking down the hall down to his room. "I didn't really notice? Maybe Sasha did. She notices more shit than I do. Did something happen?"

"_Yeah_…" Jean sounded exhausted as Connie nudged open his door. "_Well… okay, have you talked to your sister about Ymir yet_?"

Connie pulled his fork from his mouth, glancing to the side as he grappled with his phone. "Why the hell would I talk to Mari about—?" He cut himself off with a cry of shock as a figure bolted upright on his bed, a silhouette blending into the dark curtains that clung to his bedside window.

"_Connie_?" Jean asked mildly. Then, after a moment of silence where Connie's breath filled the void between them, sharp and fearful as he thought back to where he kept the stashed weapons in his room, Jean's voice became more insistent. "_Connie_!"

"Shh!" the silhouette hissed, leaning forward with her finger against her dark lips. Connie stared at Ymir blankly, watching shadows dance about her dark, freckled face.

"Uh," Connie said vacantly, "I'm gonna have to call you back, Jean."

"_What_?" Jean started, sounding confused. "_Wait, no, I need to ask you_—!"

Connie hung up. He stuck his phone into his pocket and turned on the lamp. Ymir sat calmly on his bed, one leg dangly off the side, and she looked utterly blameless, as though he were the one intruding on her life. She was fully clothed, Connie realized, which like, thank god, because that would've been a little too awkward for his liking. But her clothes were all soiled and filthy, her muddy boots abandoned at the window near Connie's closet. Her dark feet were blistered, dirt smothered, and cracked open. Dried blood crusted at her heels.

"Are you okay?" Connie blurted. He knew he wasn't supposed to care. He knew that Ymir was kinda a fugitive now. She'd hurt Christa. Historia? Whatever. But still, it was hard not to care just a little bit, seeing the girl's wan skin and dull brown eyes, her muddy clothes and bloody feet. She'd probably collapsed onto his bed out of exhaustion.

"Positively gay, _hermano_," Ymir stated dryly. Her voice was rough, coarse from disuse. It fell from her lips like rocks grinding against her teeth.

"What?" Connie asked flatly. He glanced at her for a moment, incredulous, and then he barked a laugh. "Okay? If you're so thirsty, then, you picked the wrong room. My older sister is across the hall."

Ymir sat for a moment, puzzling over his words with her face pinching and her head tilting curiously. "I didn't mean homosexual," Ymir said slowly. And then, all at once, her face lit up like a beacon, her brown eyes burning with a strange spark that pulsed somewhere beneath their murky depths. "But, now that you mention it—"

"That was a joke," Connie squeaked. "Don't ask my sister out."

"Ha!" Ymir clapped her hands against her knees, and she grinned broadly. "Why not? Is there a chance she'd say yes?"

"Um, yeah, actually," Connie said, wrinkling his nose as he glanced over Ymir. "She's kinda a narcissist, and you two look alike." He paused, his thoughts running a mile a minute, and it took a moment for his words to catch up. He looked at Ymir, her dark skin and dark eyes and pointed chin and pointed nose, and he stared. "Wow. You two look _a lot_ alike, holy shit."

"Do we?" Ymir's freckles were perhaps the greatest difference between her appearance and Marigold. Marigold's freckles were really faint, and barely noticeable at all. Marigold's hair was lighter, and thicker, and her eyebrows were upturned more, but otherwise…? Ymir and Marigold had a lot of weird similarities. "I'd like to meet her. Is she home?"

"Uh, no," Connie said. He watched her eye his bowl of pasta, her brow furrowing as he spoke. "Um, can I ask you a question?"

"Yeah," she said, "sure. Whatever."

"Why are you here?"

Ymir didn't respond right away. Her feet rested against the carpet, blood stained and blistered, and she hunched. She was not too fazed by the blood, or the grime, but his question had jostled her. Sunlight crept in through the two windows, yellowish and graying with every breath, and the light cast a sallow gloom upon Ymir's dark, freckly face.

"I needed a place to crash," Ymir said smoothly.

"Yes," Connie said weakly, blinking at her incredulously. "On my bed. But why?"

"Christ," Ymir spat, rolling her head and her eyes and her shoulders all in one grand gesture. "What should that matter?"

"Because you look like you've been through some trench warfare, or like, something!" Connie didn't know how else to put it. She looked like she'd been sleeping in a gutter? She looked like she was about to die of exhaustion? She looked like shit? Yeah. All of the above! "_Dios mio_, get up. Get off my bed. I need to clean up before my mom gets home. _You_ need to be clean before my mom gets home."

Connie's thoughts ran much faster than his mouth did. He was already formulating some kind of excuse for Ymir. His mom didn't know Ymir had ran away from the rest of his team, so it'd be easy to explain why she was here. _Why am I even bothering?_ Connie wondered, shoving his bowl of pasta at Ymir's chest. She was still sitting on Connie's bed, looking a little stunned. _They told me she hurt Christa— or, Historia, and she ran away, and she knew stuff._

But still, Connie wasn't cruel. He'd give her food and a shower, and tell Armin that she was here. Connie wasn't smart, but he did know that he could be in danger. He'd text Armin. If he kept Ymir here long enough, maybe some backup would come, and he wouldn't have to deal with Ymir alone.

"Wait," Ymir said, staring down at the pasta, "huh?"

"What?" Connie stared at her blankly. "You've obviously been on the road for a while. Eat, and then shower. You're a lot taller than Mari, but she rolls her sweatpants, so you might be able to fit in them."

Ymir smirked, though Connie wasn't sure if she was actually amused, or if she was just trying to hide her surprise. She dug into the pasta, her cheeks hollowing out as she smiled and spoke through her chewing. "You're awful surprisin'," she said, her dark eyes twinkling. Connie didn't like that look. He didn't trust Ymir, and he didn't want her to think that he was letting her off the hook, but he didn't know what else to do. "Thought for sure you'd kick me out."

"Yeah, well," Connie said, "you don't know me very well."

Ymir couldn't deny that, of course. Connie had only met her… what, twice? And they hadn't exchanged any friendly words. This was all just so freaking weird, and he was confused about what he should do. He didn't want to rat her out, but at the same time he had to. It wasn't even that he liked Ymir! She was a total bitch, honestly! But there was something in her face, the gaunt sunken appearance that clung to her hollow eyes and caving cheeks, the way her dark freckles seemed to explode against her pallid cheekbones and nose and sharply pointed chin. She looked sickly, and tired, and Connie was not cruel.

_This is gonna be a real pain in my ass_, Connie thought, grabbing Ymir's boots from his window. They were completely caked over with mud. Bits of grass clung to the soles, amongst other things, and Connie figured Eliza might know the best way to get them clean, since she played soccer and she was consistently cleaning off her cleats in the sink in the garage beside the washing machine. Connie didn't know when Eliza would be home, though. Maybe Sasha would know? Or he could just take the risk and scrub at them till they were clean.

"How'd you get from Manhattan to here?" Connie asked curiously. Ymir stared at him with her dull brown eyes, her lips perpetually at a smirk as she chewed and chewed and chewed. Connie regretted giving her the pasta now. "Seriously, did you take a bus? Hitchhike? Steal a car?"

"A motorcycle, actually," she said.

_Wow_, Connie thought, unable to help his admiration. _Hardcore_. He watched her scoop up the last bits of pasta, gobbling it up hastily. Did she have somewhere to go? Was there even a reason to her being her? Like, what the fuck?

Ymir burped, pounding on her chest and nodding. "That was swell," she said. "Got any more?"

"Nope," he said, rolling his eyes. "The bathroom is the door all the way at the end of the hall, to the left. The door is open, so you can't miss it. Everything you need is probably in there, but like, don't ask me about like… women-y stuff, because I don't know where they keep that shit."

Her eyes narrowed amusedly, the corners of her lips stretching. "Noted," she said. She pushed off the bed and stretched her arms up, lifting the bowl over her head. "So, _hermano_. What do I owe you for all this?"

Connie had not been thinking about a reward. He'd been thinking about making the house as pristine as it had been when he'd left this morning so his mother didn't chew him out. So he didn't have a clue what Ymir could do for him. Not burn down his house? That'd be nice. Burn down his school? That'd be even nicer. But, too bad, he didn't really want to mention those things. He was hoping she didn't have the intention of burning anything today.

"Surprise me," he said, whirling away from her. Ymir followed him out of the room, and he felt her eyes on his back, curious and cautious, because she didn't seem to understand anymore than he did about why he was doing this. He just did it. He had no thought about it. It was a reflex to give this kindness, and he could only hope it didn't go terribly wrong.

Connie set the boots down outside Mari and Eliza's room before he entered. It was still as cramped as ever, even more so now that Eliza was getting into fashion and shit. There were clothes everywhere. _If I had clothes everywhere_, Connie thought darkly_, mom'd pitch a fit and whoop my sorry ass_. He clambered over some of Mari's shit, plucking up a pair of sweatpants from one of the piles on the floor, and then a baggy tee shirt that Mari had gotten from Youth Group several years ago. There was a prayer written on the back.

As Connie was walking out of Mari and Eliza's room, his furious older sister slid before him, shocking him so badly he squawked. The noise should have amused her, but it didn't. Her eyes were cold and dark and flashing down at his round face. Hers was so slim and pretty by comparison, and fuck, he hated her for it. Mari got the good genes.

"Where'd you come from?" he blurted, holding her clothes awkwardly in the crook of his arm. "When did you get home, I didn't even hear you!"

"Who's taking a shower?" Mari asked. "Eliza has practice, and Mark's with mom. Dad's at work." Her eyes followed his face rapidly for a moment, and her nostrils flared. "Is it Sasha?"

He blinked, understanding her reasoning a little, but not her rage. "Uh—" he started weakly. She cut him off, clapping her hand against her forehead and groaning.

"Oh god, don't tell me you're fucking her, Connie, I don't think I'd be able to handle that."

"_What_?"

"You heard me!"

He found his face flushing all at once, heating up miserably as her words hit him very hard. "Fucking Sasha?" Connie was amazed how the thought had never passed his mind, actually. _Thanks, sis_, he thought bitterly. "I am _not_ fucking Sasha. I don't _intend_ on fucking Sasha. Can we not talk about fucking Sasha anymore, oh my God, Mari, ohmygodwhywouldyoueventhinkohmygodwhatthefuck_ohmy_—"

"Oh, shut the fuck up," Mari sighed, rubbing her temples and shooting him a glare. "You're running your mouth again. I caught none of that."

"What," Connie said, his voice a squeak, "the fuck, Mari?"

"Can you blame me for suspecting?" She pursed her thin, dark lips, and lifted her pointed chin toward the ceiling. Her thick brown hair curled around her ears. Connie's hair had been brownish gray. An ugly color. He was glad it was gone. "You're always with her. And you're like, what? Fifteen?"

"Ha ha," he spat at her. "So funny. You're _soo_ funny, Mari. You'll give me heart failure, I'm laughing so hard."

"I mean," she sighed, seeming to relax now that she had confirmation that Connie was not, in fact, fucking Sasha, "you could do a lot worse, I guess. She could probably do better."

"Wow," he said. "_Espero que no est__ás refiriendo a ti misma, puta_!"

"Chill," she said coolly. "I didn't mean me. Though, yes. Yes, I'm obviously the superior choice."

"Ew, don't," he groaned. "Anyone but Sasha."

"I said chill. I'm not interested in your girlfriend, I'm not that bad of a sister." Mari snorted, but then her eyes flashed with a sudden wariness. "Wait. So who's in the shower?"

How to explain. Connie was not particularly sore over the girlfriend comment, not after Mari's lewd assumptions, but it hung on his mind as it ran on a course that'd hopefully give him a good excuse for Ymir. It didn't. He had no real excuse for Ymir other than the fact that Connie hadn't known how to turn her away. Because he was stupid.

"Um, well…" Connie bounced on his heels, vibrating in place as he thought through the words he could use to describe his current situation. "One of the, uh, teammates, she showed up here. She looked like she could use a shower, y'know? I mean, I dunno, she was tracking mud everywhere. Oh, can she use your clothes? You're taller than I am, so like, might as well. When did you get home, though, seriously? I should've heard you. Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Oh my god, Connie," she hissed, her eyebrows furrowing, "you're so stupid!"

"What?" He knew that fact, of course. He knew it all too well. "What d'you mean?"

Marigold looked absolutely infuriated. Her upturned brows knitted, and her thin lips pursed, and her long, pointed nose wrinkling in distaste. She made a soft groaning sound, her voice rumbling in the back if her throat as she rolled her eyes. "Ymir," she snapped, surprising Connie. "Right? Tell me I'm right."

"How'd you know?" he gasped, peering up at her in awe. She glanced at him, her dark gaze chilly and furious. He didn't understand why. "What's your problem?"

"Connie, do you even have eyes?" She was still making a disgusted face, her dark skin growing taut around her cheeks and forehead. She glanced down the hall, and she shook her head in disbelief. She grabbed his wrist and yanked him down the hall, marching past the bathroom and dragging him with her. Connie tossed the bundle of her clothes he'd collected for Ymir at the door, blinking as she rounded a corner and prevented him from seeing them bounce off the wood.

"What are you doing?" he asked in a hollow voice. "Where are we going?"

She shoved him at the broom closet door, and he tore away from her, shoving her right back. She threw the door open, ignoring him as he shouted her name, angry now at her silence. He watched her kick away a bucket and a tiny broom, standing on her tiptoes to reach the latch on the ceiling. The fold away ladder to the attic came tumbling down, and she stood before it with a somber expression. She whirled to face Connie.

"Do you remember," she said, "the stories_ abeulito_ used to tell us?"

"Um," he said, "not particularly?"

She sighed, shaking her head again, and grumbling, "Typical." She began to climb the rungs of the ladder, gesturing for him to follow. He did without hesitation, if only because he was curious and tired of this already. He wanted to know whatever the hell Mari knew.

The attic was a strange sort of cylindrical death trap. A low ceiling crept precariously low to Connie's shaved head, cobwebs dusting the grayish wooden rafters, and bits of floor boards ripped away to reveal fluffy insulation and dark piping. The walls were lined with boxes stacked in careful blocks in order to save space. They circled the room in tightly packed brown squares. Marigold hopped over a gap in the floor and pulled a cardboard box from the mass, ignoring the dust it coughed up as two boxes collapsed upon the empty space.

She plopped the box down, tearing it open and waving him over. He rounded the gap, blinking down at her as she knelt before the dusty box, and the October chill dug at his spine as he listened to the wind whistle against the shingles above them. The air was thick despite the frigid temperature, musky and heavy and stale. Every breath inhaled seemed to be cloaked in a lining of dust, and it made his tongue itch and his nostrils twitch. His lungs were rejecting this icy, musty air, and he coughed and blinked through the tinged shade.

"Maybe you were too young," Mari said, shifting through the box full of old, faded, crinkled photographs. "Maybe you were too stupid. But he used to tell us all about his mom, remember? And how she came to this country penniless, and ended up helping the government out with something."

"Yeah, no," Connie said. "I don't remember that at all."

"He had a sister," she continued, setting aside a pile of photographs. "She died from tuberculosis before he was born. He said that his mom was so heartsick over it that she constantly talked about her, and he just felt like he knew her." She plucked a photograph from the box, peering at it in the dim light, and her shoulders slumped. The air seemed to only grow thicker. Connie felt sick as she handed over the photograph, a little square slip of paper of dull black and white scenery.

A little girl stood somberly on a porch, her dark freckled face turned toward the camera. She did not smile, and she did not glare. She merely stood, startlingly straight and unblinking, eerily calm. She was wearing a pretty black dress with pretty black shoes, and a gleaming necklace stood out starkly against her collarbone. Her dark hair was pinned away from her pointed, fay-like face.

"Ymir," Mari said. "That was her name."

Connie had no words. It made too little sense to him.

The girl in the photograph looked a lot like Ymir. But, on the other hand, it also looked a lot like Mari. Or Ilse.

"It looks like Ilse," he blurted, recalling the angelic woman who had saved his life by killing him. "Kinda."

"Does she?" Mari seemed unfazed by this comment. Perhaps she'd been expecting it. "It's funny you say that. Look on the back."

Connie stared at her blankly, and he found himself turning the photograph over to stare at the strange curling script that looped across the yellowed backside of the photo. _Ilse turned nine today. Don't you think she looks positively miserable? Maybe she misses you! Would you like to visit her? _The words ended with that. A swirling question mark, a faded inquisition that seemed to be empty in feeling. As though the writer was asking as a formality, because the writer already knew the answer. Connie felt dizzy in the dim, hazy light that breathed through the chilly attic.

"You said her name was Ymir," Connie whispered, his mind a great messy fog.

"It is," a low, carefree voice spoke up softly from the trapdoor. Connie was on his feet before Ymir could so much as poke her head above the floorboards, and he ran through the ways he could get Mari out of harms way. But there were no ways out of the attic. Not unless he punched a hole through the roof. _I could do it_, he thought, his eyes darting from Ymir's dark face to the rafters. _For Mari, I could do it_.

Ymir's face was a little flushed from her shower, and her dark hair was sleek and black, dripping wet across her deeply freckled forehead. Her eyes looked a little swampy as she peered through the haze of dust and splintered yellow light. She pulled herself up into the attic, looking around with her chin jutting out and her shoulders pushed back. She wanted to seem bigger than she really was, like giant amongst little squirming men.

And she smirked, her lips twisting and her cheeks caving with the stretch of her smile. "Cool it, Constantino. I'm not gonna burn anything. There's no point now, you've already got a hold of what I wanted."

"Pictures?" Connie blurted, awed by this stupid girl and her stupid mystery. "You came to my house to steal pictures?"

"And burn them," she said, "yeah." She strode up to him and snatched the photograph from his fingers. Mari made a sharp noise of objection, like a cross between a whimper and a snarl. Ymir ignored her promptly. "Christ, I remember that dress. It was itchy, and that day was so damn cold. I never liked dresses like that, all long and frilly. The fashion change that came after the war, now that swung my way. Could've been a flapper proper if I hadn't died."

"What?" he asked weakly, his voice trembling in shock. Mari sat on the ground, looking equally alarmed and terrified. The air was growing warmer just by the heat Ymir exuded, and suddenly Connie felt like he was suffocating inside this dusty, dingy, dimly lit attic.

"What?" Ymir glanced up from the photo, blinking at Connie vacantly. "Oh, my name? Yeah, it's Ymir. Sometimes it's Ilse, but I never liked that one bit. Always felt like that name didn't belong to me. Like I was borrowing it, or somethin'." She studied the photo, and her nostrils flared in disgust. "I was an awful gloomy child."

"So that's you," Mari whispered in disbelief, as if she hadn't been trying to convince Conne just that. "It's really you? How is that possible? How… you couldn't have died, that's not possible!"

"I died," Connie pointed out, his voice flat and empty. "Ilse killed me. Remember?"

"Wait, what?" Ymir glanced at him. Confusion warped her pretty fay face, and it made her look like a grumpy mass of freckles and damp black hair. When Connie opened his mouth to explain, she shook her head furiously. "Never mind! I don't want to know, don't tell me! The less I know about that, the better."

"Uh… okay…?" Connie had never been more confused in his entire life. He felt as though the entire world had decided to tell him a great big gaping lie, and wrap it up in a girl with a freckled face and a strange, vintage drawl. "Can you… can you explain? Please?"

"Why I have two names?" Ymir looked a little underwhelmed, and she tossed the photograph back at Connie. He caught it easily in midair, his breath catching as the confusion turned to paranoia. What if Ymir had been the one who had killed him and given him his legs back? Was that even possible? "My mother, your great-grandma, I suppose, named me Ymir. Sina called me Ilse. I was their first attempt at creating a superhuman. It turned out pretty well, actually, 'til I got TB. Then it didn't go so well. For me, at least."

"And you died," he said. "You died. Wait, are you related to us? How _old_ are you?"

"Like… a hundred?" Ymir leaned her head back, her eyes darting around the rafters about them. "I guess. 1913. So yeah, a hundred." She smiled wanly. "That's just a technicality, though. I'm not mentally or physically a hundred years old, no more than you."

"But you're related to us," Mari clarified vacantly. "Definitely?"

"I suppose so," Ymir said, not sounding all too pleased with this fact. "But only just hardly. I'd be your grandfather's half sister. I realized that at his funeral, and laughed in the middle of the priest's homily. Don't worry your pretty little heads any, I'm not interested in being your long lost relative. I wanted to burn these before you ever figured it out, but it's much too late for that now, hm?"

Connie was dreaming. He had to be dreaming. This was utterly surreal, like no conversation he had ever had with anyone, because Ymir was so utterly candid and without a hint of shame. He wished he could be like her. She was awful, yeah, but she was bold and certain and _smart_. He was just pathetic in comparison, right? He thought so. It was a nagging itch of a thought that bloomed steadily into a paranoid burning.

"How are you a hundred years old?" Mari whispered. She seemed to be completely in shock. Connie couldn't blame her, because he was shocked as well, but she had to have been expecting this. Right? Right!

"Isn't it obvious?" Connie found himself saying. "She was frozen!"

"Excuse me?" Mari's eyes narrowed at his face, and she slapped down a pile of photographs. "Okay, enlighten me. How would that work?"

"Like Captain America," he said, rolling his eyes, "_duh_!"

"Are you serious, Connie?" she groaned, burying her face in her hands. "Not everything in our lives is like a comic book!"

"Nah, I was frozen," Ymir said smoothly. He bit back a smile of triumph as Mari sat dumbly on the floor, staring up between him and Ymir. "I never actually died, that was an exaggeration. But I was sick damn near forever."

"Did they freeze you until they had a cure for tuberculosis?" Connie asked. She laughed at that.

"No," she sighed, "they kept me sick and on ice for a lot longer than that. But, I can't complain. I mean, I'm not dead yet. There's always that."

It was endlessly confusing, speaking to Ymir like this. She was only spouting out strange, rapid truths that she spun for them so casually it hurt to listen. Connie didn't know if he wanted this information anymore, not with this blunt narrative pounding into his head with every syllable drawled from Ymir's thin, dark mouth. He felt disconnected from the world, and more importantly, disconnected from himself. What the hell was up with his family?

"I'm so confused," he groaned.

"Imagine living it," Ymir laughed, a strange bark that echoed loftily in the shadowy rafters. "It wasn't so bad, though. I was never treated poorly, if you can imagine. I never hated being there, like all the others complain nowadays. It was different then. I was alone, and they doted on me."

"Must've been nice," Mari stated, sounding a little lost. Her eyes were glazed over, and she sat in defeat upon the floor. They were both a little at Ymir's mercy.

"Nice." Ymir shrugged. "Ha. Ha! Yeah, it was!" Her eyes were dark and glittering madly, a secret on her tongue that Connie knew she would not tell. "Unfortunately, it was still a prison."

"Why are you telling us this?" Connie blurted. Ymir focused her gaze on him, never a hint of her thoughts trailing from her consistently smug expression. She carefully lowered herself to the floor, dragging the box toward her while keeping silent. Connie was left to stand, and feel as though the world had turned on its head.

So, Ymir was his hundred year old half great aunt. Cool?

_And Mari thought cryosleep was unrealistic_.

"Well," Ymir said, staring into the box full of old photographs, "you're damn near too stupid to use this information in a way that'd hurt me."

"He's not stupid," Marigold said coolly. Connie stared at her, feeling as though he'd missed something crucial. Wasn't she the one always pointing out his unintelligence? "And you're barely making sense. How can you even exist?"

"Do you think I was told every goddamn little thing?" Ymir's eyes narrowed at Mari. "Newsflash, _hermana_, I was a subject, not an observer. I had no clue what was happening."

"This is ridiculous," Mari scoffed. "Why should we trust you?"

Ymir shifted from photograph to photograph, her lips giving that strange little quirk that Connie knew meant she was amused in the most wicked sort of way. "Oh, I never in a million years expect you to trust me. But, perhaps suffer me for a few hours. I'm awful sleepy." She smiled fondly then, which was a strange sight, and she held up a photo of their dead grandfather. "He looked like a real ass."

"Must be the family resemblance," Connie said dryly. Ymir stared at him, and Mari choked on a laugh.

"You have no idea," Ymir said darkly, her brow furrowing as she turned her face away. Connie bent down and scooted closer to the box. He began to look through the photographs as well, flipping through them individually and finding that they were all very distinct. His grandfather had been an adventurous man. Mari began to sift through the box as well, and suddenly the three of them were quiet, moving through the pictures at an alarming speed. Even for Connie.

"You don't have to believe me," Ymir said, "y'know, that I'm a hundred. Among other things."

Connie was holding a photo of his grandfather and his grandmother, two teenagers laughing in a cemetery. There were marigolds braided into her hair as she stretched her arms out toward the sky, her head thrown back as Connie's grandfather grinned in the foreground. He set the picture down, feeling numb to the entire idea of his ancestry.

"That's pretty easy to believe," he admitted. "What gets me is that we're related somehow."

"That didn't shock me," she said, raising her pointed chin high. "The way I figure it, Constantino, somebody out there feels as though he— or she— owes your family a debt for my existence. You weren't given superpowers 'cause you're a looker."

That didn't sting as much as it should've. In fact, her words came as something of a relief to him. Connie had always wondered why Ilse had appeared to him out of countless children to give him his legs back. He thought that he had been lucky, but knowing the truth? That the institute that had maimed and marred his friends and teammates owed his family? It was much more exciting than he could have hoped for. It made sense. Something finally made _sense_.

"How long have you known about this?" he asked, twisting to face Ymir in utter awe. He was done being confused, done caring about how strange and unreal his life was. This was it, this was what it was, and he wasn't about to start questioning it now. Ymir didn't respond right away, for she was still flipping through photographs, her dark eyes moving slowly over the antique snapshots and vintage filmstrips.

"Since the funeral," she said, setting the old photographs aside. The air was thick and hot now, dust settling in their hair and in their eyes, perching on their tongues. He could taste ever particle, hot and itching down his throat as he inhaled. He told himself that impossible things happened everyday. That Ymir was just another impossible thing in his impossible life. That he, too, was an impossible boy living in an impossible world.

There could be no disbelief in a world where anything was possible.

"And you weren't gonna tell us?" He felt a little betrayed. This newfound kinship meant nothing, really, in the grand scheme of things, but even so. Connie felt that family was important. Even a distant anomaly such as Ymir Langner. "You were just gonna take the pictures and leave?"

"Yup," she said loftily, "pretty much."

The heat of the attic was her fault. It had been cold, Connie recalled, when they had first climbed the latter. Now it was sweltering hot, and every breath was a chore, and Connie's skin was prickling with sweat despite the howling of the nipping autumn wind beating at the rooftop, whistling through the shingles and looping in through cracks in the foundation. Ymir was warmth incarnate, fire blooming in her eyes, and Connie… Connie felt that strange heat like he felt his own hand moving, bones bending automatically to push through photo after photo after photo. He was amazed, but only because he was relieved. It was nice to have someone else in his house who wasn't normal.

"Why?" Mari asked sharply. "Why didn't you want us to know?"

"I don't care about you," Ymir said matter-of-factly. She leaned back, throwing all of her weight onto her arms as she peered up into the darkened rafters. "Make no mistake… Marigold, right? You two might have some blood of mine in you, but that's it. I don't know you. You don't know me. Family doesn't have the same meaning to me as it does to you, I imagine, so I figured it'd be the best for us all if I nipped it before it grew." Her dark, careful gaze fell upon Connie's face. He wanted to hit her, or scream at her, but he was too scared of her, and he wanted to be her friend too badly. _She killed Eren's mom_, Connie reminded himself. Why didn't he care about that anymore?

"I have a question," he announced. Ymir rolled her eyes, a wry smile twisting about her lips, and he knew she was either amused by him or annoyed by him. Neither was pleasant to think about.

"Shoot it, Constantino," she said. _Amused_, he thought. _Definitely_.

He sat with his legs crossed, his eyes moving from photograph to photograph, and then finally Ymir's face. She looked oddly content. "Why did you kill Eren's mom?" His voice was strangely vacant and curious, as though he were asking her the date. He wondered when things like this had stopped fazing him.

"What?" Mari asked blankly. Horror reflected on her face.

Ymir blinked at Connie curiously, straightening up in a sudden rush of excitement. "Whoa," she gasped, "you know about that? And you still helped me?" She threw her head back and laughed. The sound berated across the rafters and snarled in time with the wailing wind. "I was wrong! You ain't stupid, _hermano_. Just hopelessly naïve."

"What?" Mari gasped, her eyes darting from Ymir to Connie and back. "Connie, what the hell?"

"It's not like they don't tell me things," he mumbled, feeling foolish and frustrated. "Can you just answer? I want to know."

"Do you wanna know all the gory details?" Ymir's eyes were glistening, glowing bright like two lit coals hissing in the darkness. "Like how she screamed, choking on the fumes of smoke until she was sick and retching and sobbing? How she was crying about Eren, how she thought he was still in the house? Do you wanna know what she smelled like, through all the stinging smoke and spitting ash? It was like charred meat spinning on a spit, like ham bubbling up in an open flame, bloating… and blistering… and blackening…"

Connie sat very still as Mari jumped to her feet, her eyes glistening with horror, and she cried, "You're a _monster_!"

"No more than him," Ymir retorted, jerking her finger at Connie's terror-stricken face. "Only difference between us two? I've never had the privilege of restraint. I grew up in a place that only ever encouraged me to use my power. Never once did they think I needed to control it. So, yeah. I killed someone. I guess I'm sorry it was Carla Jaeger, but I can't change that it happened. I take responsibility for it. It was my folly." She stared ahead, her eyes vacant and her smirk gone. Connie believed that she truly was sorry for it, even though he was a little unnerved by her. He couldn't imagine being in Eren's shoes, and he was glad for that. It made it easier to accept her.

"You should leave," Marigold said icily. Ymir glanced at Mari with her expression amicable, but her eyes dimming. Connie shot Mari a sharp look of frustration. Did she never learn?

"You can stay," he blurted as Ymir pushed herself to her feet. Her dark hair wisped around her cheeks, drying in brown tufts around her long face. He jumped up as well, finding that he truly wanted Ymir to stay and talk to him. She was a terrible person, but there was so much that Connie didn't know. That he needed to know. "Don't listen to Mari, she doesn't get it."

"She's a murderer," Mari snapped. "What exactly don't I get?"

"Mari, can you like, do me a big favor and leave?" He didn't look at his older sister, and ignored the indignant noise she made in response. "No, seriously, get out."

"You're unbelievable, Connie. She's a total creep! I'm not leaving you alone with her!"

"I'm more than capable of taking care of myself, Mar', okay? Just go!" Connie was so done with dealing with Mari, it wasn't even funny. All his sister did was whine and bitch at him relentlessly about things she couldn't possibly understand. He was sick of it. If he wanted to talk to Ymir alone, it was none of her business! "And don't you dare fucking tell mom."

"Ohh, right," Mari sneered, brushing past him. "_Mooom_! Connie's in the attic with our murderous fire-starting hundred year old great aunt!" She shot Connie a scathing look, and he knew she probably wouldn't tell anyone about this. "_Right_."

She climbed down the ladder, glowering at Ymir as she went, and Connie stood for a moment listening to her footsteps retreat. Then he turned to Ymir, finding that he could only glower at her too. This was such a weird situation, and he was angry at her despite wanting to help her.

"Well." Ymir flung her arms out wide, grinning broadly at Connie as she gestured around her. "You've got me! What do you want, Constantino, m'boy?"

"Can you, like…" Connie swallowed thickly, and he rubbed his temples. "Just… cut the crap for two seconds? Please?"

"Mm, two seconds are a bit faster in my time than in your time, _hermano_." She smiled cheekily.

He sighed. He rubbed the stubble on his scalp thoughtfully, wondering how to proceed. He didn't want to hate Ymir, but she was making it so hard! He looked around at the boxes stacked against the walls, listening to the wind snarl above them, and he leaned into the unnatural heat that plagued the air simply because of Ymir's presence.

"You can stay here," he said quietly. "Not forever, just… for tonight, maybe? You can stay up here. I don't want to tell the team about you, though." He looked at her desperately, looking into her eyes and pleading with her to give him a reason not to. "Did you mean to kill Eren's mom, Ymir?"

Her eyes widened for a moment, and she snorted. "Why the hell should that matter?" she asked. "She's dead. It was my fault."

"Little kids don't murder moms for no reason," Connie said steadily. "You either did it because it was an accident, or you did it because someone made you."

"Not because I'm an awful, murderous bitch?"

Connie shook his head. Yeah, she was a bitch, but so was Connie's sister, Sasha, and Connie _himself_, so it wasn't exactly a huge deal. "You said something," he said, "back when we blackmailed the president."

"Ah, yes!" Ymir clapped her hands together. "One of my more impressive achievements. What'd I say?"

"Something about turning children into monsters." Connie peered at her, hoping he wasn't wrong about her. "Were you speaking from your own experience?"

Ymir stared at him blankly. He expected her to laugh, and was thankful when she didn't. Instead he was greeted with a heavy silence, and a dark gaze empty of all emotion. Yes. She had spoken from experience. Connie didn't know what to feel, if he should pity her or hate her. So he turned away and dropped to his knees, scooping up the old photos they had taken from the box on the ground.

"Like I said." He tossed them back into the box, shrugging easily. "You're welcome to stay here for a little while, but I can't promise you anything permanent. And I probably should tell the team."

"You're not as stupid as I thought you were," she said thoughtfully. He blinked up at her, a little stunned.

"Was that a compliment?" He found himself grinning. "From _you_?"

"Ha ha." She rolled her eyes and smiled thinly. "I still think you're a dunce, Constantino."

"You wouldn't be the first, _Ymierda_," Connie said cheerfully. He picked up the box full of photos and brought it over to the stack Mari had taken it from.

"What did you just call me?"

He laughed, and ducked away from her when she attempted to smack him. He was far too fast for her to land a hit, and she seemed to realize that after the first miss. Her brow was furrowed, and she stared at him confusedly, her body suddenly taut as she shook her head.

"I don't understand you," she declared. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

"Not everyone in the world has an ulterior motive," he said, shrugging. "So… you stayin'?"

She looked around at the cramped attic, the boxes and the rafters and the cobwebs. And she nodded, her head bobbing for a few moments, her eyes glowing in the dim light. "Yeah," she said. "Thanks, I guess…"

"Nah. Just don't burn down the house, okay?"

"I'll try."

Connie climbed down the ladder, watching Ymir as he descended. He'd tell the team. Eventually. Sasha would probably know just by walking in the door. He could almost see it now. She'd walk in, look around, move straight to the closet and ask Connie why the fuck Ymir was sleeping in his attic. It'd be a trip and a half trying to explain that one, for sure. But, until then, he figured it'd be okay. So long as Mari didn't tell his parents, and nobody went up into the attic.

This was going to be a disaster.

Connie was gathering up blankets when Mari approached him. She watched him toss a fleece quilt over his shoulder, grabbing a pillow from the linen closet. Her eyes were following his every move furiously.

"I don't trust her, Connie."

"Neither do I," he admitted. He closed the closet door and turned away from his sister.

"Then why the hell are you helping her?"

He shrugged. Why _was_ he helping Ymir? She'd done nothing to deserve it. She was mean, and rude, and kinda annoying. She'd killed Eren's mom, hurt Historia, and was possibly responsible in part for Connie's death six years ago. So why? Why should he even care what happened to her at this point?

"I'm a hero," Connie said quietly. "I want to help people. Even people like Ymir. She deserves a chance to prove she's not as terrible as we think."

She stared at him, and he paused in the middle of the hallway, drinking in this glorious silence happily. It was rare that Marigold was actually quiet, so he was gonna bask in it as long as he could. She stared, and he smiled to himself, because he actually sounded kinda cool when he'd said that, right? Right!

"You're such a dork, Connie."

Or not.

The doorbell rang, and Connie leapt at the opportunity to ditch his annoying elder sister. He shoved the blanket and the pillow at her chest, racing down the hall and shouting back at her, "Take those to the attic!" She had no time to respond as he zoomed to the door, leaving nothing but a gust of wind in his wake. He flung it open, expecting Eliza to be standing there grumpily because she'd forgotten her key, or something.

It wasn't Eliza.

"Um," Connie said weakly, "hi?"

The woman was about Connie's height— basically, _small_— with pretty tawny eyes and a round face. Her cropped strawberry blonde hair framed her cheeks, her bangs tucked carefully beneath the overlapping strands. She was wearing rain boots with a dress that reminded him a bit of seafoam, an off-green hue hemmed with white lace. She was wearing a beige cardigan, and in her hands was a suitcase.

She smiled weakly back at him, and said, "Connie Springer?"

"Uh…" He was so alarmed, because pretty girls didn't often visit him. Unless Sasha counted? But she was only pretty, like, half the time. "Yeah, I think so."

She laughed at that, and adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, which hung from her shoulder and rested at her hip. "Okay, that's good, I've got the right house!" She sighed in relief, rocking back on her heels. "I'm Petra Ral. Jean told you I was coming, right?"

* * *

_Special thanks to Angie for the "Ymierda" joke. best joke in the entire story hands down. nothing else comes close. actually special thanks to angie in general for being my official spanish translator for everything ilu bae_

_connie chaps are really fun bc nothing is seriously but everything is really, really serious it's amazing_

_hey, hey! I EXPLAINED STUFF! gold star for dani_

_oh hey petra what up girl haven't seen you in like almost twenty chapters_


	22. damage without injury

**damnum absque injuria**

**Chicago, Illinois**

_a.d. viii Kalendas Novembres, 2766 A.U.C_

When Jean had checked the weather that morning, the man on the screen had said it'd be a bit nippy.

Ha ha. Fuck him.

Jean skipped school, which wasn't abnormal as of late. He saw no point in going. It was a little too much to bear, walking through those halls, going through the perfunctory routine that ruled his life. He didn't like it, and he wanted out. It was stupid, and naïve, but he just wanted a break from reality. That's why he became a hero in the first place, wasn't it?

God, he was such a fucking joke.

He'd never considered himself to be like, one of those awkward stoner asshole punks who major in douchebaggery and minor and misanthropy, but hey. Life was full of little surprises.

It wasn't like he wanted to be hateful and angry. He wanted to go to school, and he wanted to quit smoking, and he wanted to tell his mom he was a fucking hero, and most of all he wanted Marco to be alive.

And…?

Well, the point was, life sucked, and he was coping.

Jean spent the morning wandering through the woods, like he wasn't enough of a creepy loner by this point. He was considering asking his mother if they could just move to Manhattan so he wouldn't have to commute for missions, and he'd be around the friends he actually still had. But that was silly. It was stupid of him to even think about it. How was he supposed to convince him mom of something like that?

It was a nippy day, yes. Without the wind chill. The wind chill lashed out through his coat and thick woolen sweater and bit him right to the bone. He buried his face in the collar of his coat, blinking through the sting of autumn wind, and squinting up through the canopy of red leaves, watching them blot the gray sky and bleach it white. Twigs snapped underfoot, leaves crunching pitifully, and the air tasted a bit like death.

Had he always been this morbid?

He liked it, though. It was calming, this stale, frigid air, and these dead leaves wavering overhead and splitting under his boots. He enjoyed this freedom to the forest, this sense that everything was dying except him.

Marco would've told him he needed to get sober, quick, before the high consumed him.

Not that Jean was actually high? For once he wasn't. He was just sorta basking in nature, and hoping that maybe something would come along and help his life begin to make sense.

He stuck his earbuds into his ears when he was deep enough into the forest to not hear the roaring of the interstate behind him. He toed at the twigs burrowed deep beneath the ruts and dirt and fallen leaves, and found a nice narrow, jagged rock that'd do nicely. In his ears, music thudded dully, dubstep whirring and melting into vacant rap, and then into something like a lullaby. Jean had forgotten that Marco had messed with his ipod.

On every tree for a good half a mile, Jean carved a target. Sap was sticking on his fingers as he dropped the damp rock, finally, his wrist cramping, and he pulled out one of his semiautomatics. He wiped his hands carefully on his jeans, eying the makeshift target with uncertainty. The danger here was, of course, that anyone could be walking a path. He could easily actually hurt someone by doing this stupid thing.

He took a good five steps back, and cupped the base of his gun. He fired, and the crack sang in a monstrous rhythm to the sound of Kid Cudi spitting in his ears. He grimaced at the bark that splintered off the left side of the tree he'd hit. The target was half gone, a gaping hole smashed into his jagged face. But even so, Jean needed to be better. He could easily miss someone's heart, or worse, hit it.

He retreated down the path he made, squinting through the snarl of wind, ducking sailing leaves and shooting another target, blinking as he hit a tree behind the one he'd been aiming at. He swore, his voice drowned out by a thundering voice beating into his skull, and he shot again, leveling his arm and listening to the sound of the gunshot break across the wind and the music and his bated breath.

The target was smashed, bark breaking apart like glass bursting outwards, and Jean found himself grinning at the solid hole beaten into the trunk of the tree he'd hit. Yes, this was good. This felt good. It felt good to be shooting, letting the noise beat away all his stupid, pesky thoughts, all his loneliness ad confusion and sorrow. He'd needed this. Truly, he had!

He worked on steadying his footing and shooting at a faster pace while still hitting the target dead on. He almost tripped over a few roots, and botched up his aim once or twice, splitting branches or ripping holes into crimson leaves. He was getting better, though, and soon he was shooting with great ease, hopping over skulking ruts and cracking bark clean open with nothing but a glance and a trigger squeeze and a great crack to split his head open and spill his thoughts to the wind.

He stopped shooting after about half an hour, and he collapsed onto a snapped tree trunk, wiping the sweat from his brow and nibbling on a granola bar that'd serve as his breakfast and probably lunch. One earbud was hanging out of his ear as the autumn wind kissed his cheeks and whistled through his hair. He was thinking about how Ymir was missing. Presumably she was part of whatever fucking scheme Annie was part of. With the… institute? Thing? Yeah, Jean didn't know.

He was a little disappointed, though. He'd actually kinda liked Ymir a lot? She was a bitch, yes, but she'd made him feel better when he had felt pretty shitty about everything. And, maybe, Jean saw a lot of himself in that stupid freckle-faced girl. It wasn't fair that she'd gone and mucked up any chance they had at an actual friendship. This was bullshit.

Jean stuck the granola bar between his teeth and sifted through his pockets. He had a bunch of crumpled bills, his wallet, his keys, a bus pass, some loose change, a taser, three lock picks, a packet of cigarettes, a packet of matches, and a photograph. He pull the photo out, flattening it against his thigh. This was what he'd wanted. The black and white picture of Ymir, the Springers' great aunt who looked a hell of a lot like their Ymir. He studied it with tired eyes. Armin was supposed to have this, but after his weird attack at Connie's house, Jean had been the one to take it home. And Armin had a lot on his plate.

Jean wished he could say the same, but he was a little stuck in this limbo of not knowing anything and not bothering to do anything about it. Between the coasts, he was utterly lost and alone amongst the team. He should really think about moving elsewhere.

There was a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach as he watched the little girl in the photo stare solemnly back at him. He decided to take a picture of it with his phone, and he sent that picture to Petra Ral impulsively, giving her a quick explanation. He had never met her, but he knew she was a pretty good hacker, and it could be that the photo would help her more than it was helping Jean.

She texted him back a few moments later.

_Ymir langner? Or ilse langner?_

Jean sat for a moment, wondering how much this woman actually knew about what was happening. _that's what i'm trying to figure out_, he replied.

He flipped over the photograph to read the back. _Thought you might want one last picture of Ilse before I burn them all. Sorry for any inconvenience. There won't be a funeral_. Okay, wait, so who the fuck was Ilse? Seriously? If Ymir was what Connie's great aunt had been named, why did the photograph call her Ilse? And who was the Ilse that had given Connie his power, if not the girl in this photograph?

Marco would probably know the answer. Or maybe Jean just told himself that because it made him feel a little less lonely to think of what Marco might say if Marco was standing beside him.

Between the dark bark of two slender trees that had grown near the fallen trunk, a great brown dog appeared. A Great Dane with a muddy coat and warm eyes that glowed in faint morning sunlight that peeped out through the grayish overcast. It was sitting, watching Jean with a peculiar sort of intelligence, eyes glued to the bemused expression that contorted his face. Animals didn't really like Jean. So the idea that one might actually have taken an interest in him was completely outlandish.

Jean sat on the trunk, eying the dog, and the dog eyed him right back, sitting placidly in a pillow of crinkled leaves. He thought about giving the dog the remains of his granola bar, but he didn't know if dogs could have granola, and he didn't want to kill it. A gust of wind plucked up a great burst of leaves, and as they flung themselves at Jean's eyes, a flurry of rushing, crumbling red shapes scraping his cheeks, the dog moved. He ducked his head against the wind, blinking through the darting red leaves as he raised his head just a tiny bit to see where the dog had went.

Its wet nose and hot breath tickled, strangely, as they hit Jean's face like a brick wall. There was no scent to the warm bloom of breath that washed over him, which was odd, but Jean stayed very still as he watched the gleam of the dog's teeth appear, white and long and clearly threatening as the dog's snout curled back. It occurred to Jean that he was in very real danger of losing half his face, and his heart thudded with unnatural vigor against his ribs. He stared into the sunlit warmth of the dog's molten eyes, and he thought sat frozen in terror. He'd never been afraid of dogs, and they'd always steered clear of him, but this was something truly scary.

If he'd been expecting the dog to snap at his face, he was pleasantly surprised when the dog head-butted him with some semblance of gentleness, and tore the photograph from his finger with its glinting white canines. Jean didn't react at first as he watched the dog dart away, bounding off into the trees, and then he realized what had just happened. He leapt to his feet and sprinted after it, kicking up leaves and calling out, "Hey, stop! HEY!"

The dog didn't stop, and Jean had trouble catching up with it. It navigated easily through the trees, padding over the twigs and dead leaves and snaggled roots far more easily than Jean ever could. But still, he was a gymnast, and he had some upper hand in that area. He decided that if he couldn't catch up to the dog, he could cut it off by taking an alternative root and swerving in front of it. So he did that, and dodged branches, keeping an eye on the bulky brown blur that appeared between the thicket of trees, and he vaulted over a fallen tree trunk, ducking foliage and tearing the earbuds out of his ears.

It was so stupid of him to let a dog steal something so important, but he wasn't surprised. Fuck ups like this tended to happen when he was distracted. It was just his luck! _I can get it back_, Jean told himself, jumping up to catch a branch and flipping himself easily into a crouch upon it. _It's just a dog_. A smart dog, though. When it ran beneath the tree Jean had clambered into, it had stopped for a second, ears twitching. The photograph was sticking out of its snout. And after a moment of listening, it looked up and met Jean's eye. Then, as Jean pushed off, it darted away. The chase began again.

"Fuck!" Jean's feet skidded against a sharp incline, and he braced himself for a tumultuous ride as his body gave way against the sudden loss of traction. He bent himself into a roll as he hit the ground, twigs snapping into his face and leaves dragging across his skin and dirt clogging his mouth. _Graceful as a trash bag_, Jean thought furiously at himself. Was he not a trained gymnast? This was bullshit!

He landed in a disgruntled heap at the base of a hill, roots tangled around him as the ground dipped into a long, narrow clearing. He let himself lie there for a few moments until his equilibrium returned to him, and then he sat up tentatively, checking himself for broken bones as his eyes roved the space around him. He spotted the dog, sitting a few yards away with the photo in its mouth, its large eyes twinkling in amusement. Jean scowled, dragging his fingers through his hair to comb the crumpled leaves out, and he noticed something behind the dog. A person standing, watching, blue eyes wide and shadowed against a white hood.

Jean scrambled to his feet, hunching in defense as his back smacked against the wall of roots behind him. His heart gave a little start, and then began to ram against his ribs furiously, snarling at him to do something, _anything_, to break a tree trunk with his fists and hurl it.

She spun, red leaves whirling at her heels, and Jean tore one of his guns from the holster at his hip. The steady click of the safety's release was enough to make her freeze.

"Annie," Jean said, two fingers shaking on the trigger. His voice was thin, and dull, and he wondered if she could hear his hatred. He wanted her to know how disgusted he was with her, and the entire world because of her. He wanted her to choke on his fury. "Turn around."

Her shoulders slumped. The wind kicked up around them as she very slowly turned back to him, her face impossible to read through the droop of her shadowy eyes. Jean had almost forgotten what she looked like. He didn't know her well, and it was difficult to remember her face at times, because her face was linked in perfect harmony to the shattered remnants of Marco Bodt's. She was actually kinda pretty, in a terribly severe, unconventional sort of way. Her long nose, which might've been a terrible distraction on any other face, made hers more distinctive. She had the sort of look of a girl who was itching to kick someone in the balls, always.

They stared at each other, wind serving as the backdrop of their awkward reunion. Jean's heart was aching from stress, and sweat was building on his palms and at the back of his neck and under his coat. He was breathing heavy against the wind, and she was blinking at him blankly, her lips white and her cheeks flushed from the chill.

"Hands up," he ordered dully. She stared at him, her eyes darting from his face, and her brow arching. His nostrils flared in contempt, and he straightened his posture and steadied his grip on the gun, marching forward a few paces. "Hands up!"

She flung them into the air, still blinking in shock. Jean noticed the dog was gone, and he cursed himself for letting it get away, but Annie was so much more important. She was standing just a few feet away, her hands over her head, her lips parted in dull alarm, and her body rigid in fear. Fear of _him_.

_I could avenge Marco_, he thought, his eyes following the girl's gaze to the left of him. He saw nothing but tangled roots_. I could kill her here, and do everyone such a huge favor. She deserves it. She's a monster!_

He inhaled sharply. She had turned her attention back to him, her head tilting off to the side in a way that made him, miraculously, even more pissed off than he already was.

"You shouldn't hold your gun like that," she said, her voice clipped and fleeting in the whip of wind. Her words were nearly carried off completely. She averted her gaze as he gawked at her.

"_What_?"

She straightened up, but her body seemed to relax a little as she faced him fully. Her chin rose in careful defiance. "You'll minimize injuries by holding beneath the gun with your support hand, and not with both hands so low on the grip. Just…" She glanced up at the sky, and shrugged. "Just a tip."

Jean was actually aware of this, but he'd been so frantic upon seeing Annie that he'd just held the gun the way his hands landed on it. He also knew that he was making a folly by having both fingers on the trigger. A huge mistake, actually. He removed them both and readjusted his grip, glaring at her furiously.

"I could actually kill you right now," Jean spat, "and you're lecturing me on my fucking grip?"

"Lack-there-of," she said flatly, "actually."

"You're joking." He rolled his shoulders, and he spat a bitter, incredulous laugh. "You're _joking_! I— what the fuck, I can't even begin to fathom what your damage is!"

She stared at him blankly, her lips pursing and her hollow eyes moving between him and the tree roots and then up to the sky and then back. She seemed more nervous than she wanted him to know, which was good. He wanted her to be nervous. The wind was whirling around them like a whistle twittering in his ears, and he hated it. He was full of so much hatred right now, and yet he felt empty and busted, broken apart and disgusted.

He was tired of this.

"You should shoot me," she said.

That almost made him falter. His stomach lurched uncomfortably, and his heart hurt as he stared at this stupid girl. "What?" he said. "Are you still joking?"

"Nope." She lowered her arms ever so slightly, and opened them up to goad him, stretching them as far as she could. They weren't very long. "Take your best shot."

"You suicidal bitch," he snapped, his muscles locking as he realized how truly fruitless this was. He couldn't shoot her. He couldn't kill her. She was too pitiful. She was tiny! Jean realized, with a sudden rush of terror, that she was skinny and gaunt and so painfully small that she looked like a child leaning into the wind. He was scared of her, not because she was inherently a scary person, not because he knew she was a murderer, but because she was leaning into his range, lifting her chin high and _begging_ him to shoot her. How could he possibly give her what she wanted? What kind of ploy was this?

"Do it," she said.

"Why do you want me to kill you?" Jean stood, leveling his gun, keeping it at a distance and readjusting his grip again. Annie stood, her arms out wide, her chin up high, and her eyes cast away from him. Her face told no truths. Nor did her mouth, it seemed. "Why did you kill Marco?"

Her eyes flashed. Did that strike a chord? Was she guilty about that, did it hurt her to know she'd stolen something good and precious from this world? Did she maybe hate herself for that, as Jean hated her? Did she wish to undo the mistake she had made? Well, it was too late for that. Marco was dead, and she was responsible, and here Jean was, hesitating. When would he have another chance like this?

"Why are you here?" she asked. "I don't get it. Why now? What did you do?"

His nose scrunched in irritation, and he glared at her. "What do you mean?"

She sighed, and shook her head. "Just shoot me already." She glared at his side. "Get it over with."

"No!" Jean took another step, then another, then another. "Not until you tell me why!"

"Shoot me."

"No!"

"Do it," she said, her eyes flitting across his face as he stepped closer and closer. Fear passed inside them, and he could sense it growing. "Do it. Try and kill me. Blow my head off. Stick the gun in my mouth. Do _something_!"

"Tell me why you killed Marco!"

"Shoot me!" she cried, dropping her arms to her side. "You hate me. I know you hate me, and I know that you want to kill me. So do it. Shoot!"

Three shots rang out in a brilliant succession of earsplitting cracks. The wind snatched them up and carried them into the sky and buried them deep into the roots of the trees around them, vibrating the earth they stood upon. Jean dropped his gun. It crashed against the soil and the leaves, heavy and full to capacity with bullets, and Jean felt a little dizzy as he watched Annie fly onto her back from the impact of three bullets crashing into her chest, blowing a red bloom of color across the pale fabric of her hoodie.

Jean stood, terrified and numb with shock.

He had been careful to remove both fingers from the trigger, and he had set them so they pressed to the barrel, close but far enough away that an accidental firing was unlikely. He felt no recoil, because he had not squeezed the trigger.

Jean had not shot Annie.

"I'm sorry," a sweet voice said from just beside him. "She was being really rude, wasn't she? I thought I taught her better than that."

Jean threw a glance at the woman who had materialized at his side, a skinny warm-skinned woman with a pretty round face and pretty warm eyes, and pretty brown hair that cropped against her jaw and around her ears, and pretty freckles that danced across her eerily pretty face. She looked overwhelmingly nice, and overwhelmingly perfect, like a painting in a museum or a sculpture or a shape in the clouds. She was wearing a plain back dress with a white collar, and as Jean looked at her, he saw so much of Ymir in her that he felt like he could scream.

He knew better, though. This wasn't Ymir. The difference was clear.

Ymir had a harsher face, longer and more mischievous. Her nose and chin were pointed, her skin was far darker, and her eyes were black and only warm with the vivacity of her personality, not because she had any genuine warmth to her at all. The woman had a sweet look, like a mother or a sister, someone who would go to hell and back to bring someone comfort and solace. Ymir was willowy and confident, while this woman was skinny and elegant. They were alike in that they were in clear relation, but beyond that, Jean could sense that they were two entirely different people.

This was the woman who had killed Connie Springer. And… if Jean was correct, because he was often out of the loops… then this woman had also attacked Eren and Levi in Rome.

This was Ilse.

_Then who is Ymir?_ Jean thought blindly, his mind turning to mush as his gaze fell upon the gun in Ilse's small, freckled hands.

"You killed her," Jean whispered. He was utterly numb to the thought of it. He told himself he was, and yet he was shaking so badly he thought he'd collapse. He _hated_ Annie! Why was the sight of her tiny body crumpling under the impact of three bullets so jarring? Why did the sight of her blood blooming across her wrinkled white sweatshirt make him so sick?

"Oh, please," Ilse laughed, tossing the gun away. It skittered across the leaves and hit a surfaced gray tree root. "Was she not asking for it?"

"Who the fuck are you?" Jean snapped, stumbling away from the smiling woman. She looked so sad, Jean was almost tempted to ask her what was wrong. _Such a pretty girl shouldn't look so sad_, he found himself thinking numbly. "Why would you do that? I know why I want her dead, but what do you gain from that? You— you psychotic bitch—!"

"She's fine," Ilse sighed, folding her arms across her chest and stalking forward. And Jean looked and saw, with great alarm, that Annie was sitting up and patting her soiled sweatshirt with a frown and a wince. "See? She was just goading you."

"Into what…?" Jean's eyes widened, and he almost laughed. "Into killing her? Are you kidding me?"

Annie sat in the dirt and the leaves and held her chest, her eyes dull and ice clinging to her fingers and to the fabric of her sweatshirt. Jean wanted to kick her, scream at her, tell her that she was a monster, a traitor, a bitch. But he was stuck seeing her in red and white, and he couldn't look at her face, and she wouldn't look at his.

"You aren't a killer," Ilse said steadily. "She is. I am. But you?" She laughed genially, and leaned back to look at him. "Jean, I brought you here to show you just how vile your hatred really is."

"What?" he asked dumbly.

"What?" Annie croaked.

"Oh!" Ilse bounced on her feet as she whirled to face Jean, smiling dimly. "Don't worry! She won't die. She can't. I suppose if she begged I might kill her truly, but elsewise…" She frowned. "I'm getting off topic. Jean, tell me, why do you hate Annie?"

"She murdered my friend," he said automatically. Ilse's smile grew wider, and somehow it was even sadder now. She nodded, and turned to Annie who sat hugging her chest and rocking hissing through her teeth as she exhaled ice crystals, her lips frosty even from where Jean stood. Annie stared up at Ilse as she approached, and she blinked.

"What are you doing?" Annie asked slowly. "You didn't tell me about this."

"I don't tell you a lot of things," Ilse said. "You might go off and tell little mind readers about them if I did."

"Are you still bitter about that?" Annie's voice was a rasp, and her blackened fingers were streaked red and white with blood and hoarfrost. "I never told him anything. You're just lucky he never read my mind. Or that he doesn't look too deeply into anyone else's."

"That's not luck, sad to say," sighed Ilse. Annie glared at her, but said nothing. And Jean was left to puzzle out what the fuck they meant by any of that. "Let me see your chest. Did I hurt you too badly?"

Annie removed her frosty hands from her bloody chest, allowing Ilse to gingerly take one, and she shrugged. A wince came soon after, but she still shook her head. "The bullets came out easily, and it's healing fine, but you came a little close to my heart the sec—" Annie was cut off by a sickening _crack_, and she screamed in spite of herself, clamping her free hand over her mouth to stifle the sound that had torn through the wind and smashed into the clouds, parting them to allow sickly strands of sunrays to trickle down.

"Shit!" Jean cried, stumbling back and turning away as the image of Ilse snapping Annie's right arm like a skinny twig splintering burned itself into the back of his eyelids, pressing coldly to his skull.

"Jean," Ilse called. "Please don't look away. This is for you."

"What?" Jean rounded on her, his voice shaking in fury. "You just broke her fucking arm! What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Were you not prepared to shoot her, oh, say…" Ilse bounced her head from side to side as Annie's arm froze over, and the girl stretched away from Ilse, looking absolutely terrified. "Five minutes ago? You're pretty hypocritical."

Jean didn't know what to say. He didn't know, and it was so scary, and this was so wrong, and he was so guilty. "Okay," he gasped, "okay! Yeah, I'm a hypocrite!"

"Thank you for admitting it," Ilse said, "but that's not why you're here."

"Then why—? No_, fuck_!" Jean clamped his hands over his mouth, his body buckling as Ilse produced a knife out of who knew where, and sheathed it in Annie's thigh. In response, the girl's head reared back, and he heard her teeth cracking together as her body twisted away from Ilse. "Shit! No!"

"No?" Ilse twisted the knife so the blade caught against Annie's skin and curled it around the edge. She turned her head away, heaving breaths and groaning, her hand no longer at her mouth but clawing at the dirt and the leaves and the twigs, pulling up little baby roots that clung to her icy black fingers like dewy spider webs. "No, is this not enough? Should she suffer more?"

"No!" Jean cried through his hands. The sound was muffled. Ilse nodded.

"I agree," she sighed. "She can take it. And besides, she deserves it, doesn't she?" Ilse tore out the knife, and the wound it had made froze over. Ilse snapped her arm again, ice shattering around her fingers, and then she stabbed into the broken bone. While Annie moaned into the dirt, Ilse stomped on Annie's left leg until a heavy _crack_ broke against the frigid air. Annie threw her head back and let herself scream this time, a shrill breath of a scream that was cut short by a knife digging against her cheek, leaving long, thin strands of red glinting on her already ruddy skin.

"No!" Jean cried, dropping his hands from his mouth as Ilse pulled Annie's thrashing head into her lap, pushing scraggly strands of pale hair from the girl's eyes with the blood-slick blade. She drew the tip of the knife down her forehead, and then smashed the hilt into Annie's nose. Jean heard her choke on another cry, blood filling her mouth and forcing her to gurgle and cough. "Oh my god! No— no, no, no, just—!"

Drifts of snowflakes fluttered up to the sky, little clumps of fluffy ice bursting from the ground as though the world had turned upside down. Ilse dislocated Annie's left shoulder when she began to claw at the dirt again, soft breathy sobs breaking wetly into the air. Jean listened and watched, feeling a squirming sense of uselessness and terror and guilt. She was nothing but a blot of white and red twitching pitifully against an ocean of brown.

"Stop…" Jean dropped to his knees as another bone snapped, _crack_s breaking fissures into the whip of the wind. A rib, a femur, a finger, another rib, a laceration pulling open her tiny stomach, causing her to convulse and scream and throw ice up into the cloudy gray sky. Her screams were unlike anything Jean had ever heard before. He doubted Marco would have screamed like that when he had died. However it had happened, it must have been marginally quick, because Marco had looked at peace when Jean had found him in that alley. Annie was suffering unlike anyone Jean had ever known to suffer. This? This bone breaking, stabbing, gut spilling, shallow cutting madness? This was coldblooded torture. "Stop!"

"Stop?" Ilse looked up at him, holding up the crimson knife lazily in her brownish, blood drenched hands. "Is this not what you wanted? For her to suffer for your friend's death?"

"No!" Jean shook his head so furiously it hurt his neck. "No— I— just, _no_! Stop, please, please stop, oh my god, _oh my __**god**_—"

Ilse dropped Annie's poor freezing head, red crystals beading across the surface of her cheeks and melting on her nose. As Ilse stretched her legs and stood up, wandering away from Annie, Jean found himself scrambling, crawling on his hands and knees until he was by the awful girl's side, staring at her red and white body and trying to find where the monster ended and where the girl began.

He couldn't speak, and he knew she couldn't either. She was sobbing, her body shaking, her breaths shallow and uneven and rasping about in the snow cluttered air. Brown leaves turned silver around her, red leaves turned white, and she looked at him, her glazed blue eyes settling upon his face. Tears crystallized against her ruddy cheeks, forming tiny bulbs around the rims of her bloodshot eyes, and sticking little snowflakes to her blood clumped eyelashes.

She looked something like a child, then, more so than she ever had before. She was so small, so painfully tiny, that it was difficult to see her like this. Like a cadaver that had just been ripped apart several times over, a specimen for the careful inspection, and she had just… let it happen. She'd taken it. She hadn't fought against Ilse, not once, and Jean sat beside her, sickened and aching with sadness and disbelief and guilt.

_I'm so sorry_, he wished he could say to her. His fingers dug into the dirt, because he was too scared to reach out in touch her, lest he'd hurt her, lest her misfortune rub off on him, lest the blood on her hands transfer to his.

"Annie…" Jean whispered, his voice shaky and reedy and thin. "Annie…?"

He had the unspeakable urge to pick up the tiny girl and run as fast as he could away from Ilse, away from this terrible place, and just… just… fuck, he didn't know! Annie was a murderer, but she didn't deserve this! No one did!

Annie watched him, her eyes completely dead amidst the frozen blood and crystal tears. Her breaths were sharp, thin, choking in the swirl of snow that bit at her lips and stung the air.

Her chest looked like it had been caved in, which explained why she was having such a hard time breathing. Between her tears, the sobs, the pain, the ice, and the busted ribs, it was likely agony to so much as twitch a nostril, let alone breathe regularly. She didn't move, though Jean saw her black fingers twitch at the white leaves weakly, moving slow and uncertainly.

If he took those blackened fingers into his own, would he turn to ice as well?

"Hold on, okay? Hold on…" he said to her, voice coarse and wavering as he fumbled with his phone. She looked at him, and it didn't seem to register what he was doing. He found himself dialing 911, his fingers trembling against the buttons, but before he could press send, the phone was torn from his fingers. He acted upon instinct and curled defensively around Annie, shielding her body as best he could with his own. "Go away!"

"Do you hate me instead now?" Ilse sounded so cripplingly sad, and Jean clamped his hands over his ears. He was going to scream, or cry, or both. "I understand. I wish it could be different, but I get it. It's better if you hate me. Try to kill me. Misunderstand me. I'm sorry you had to see that, but don't you feel so much better?"

"You're crazy," he gasped, his face very close to Annie's neck. He could smell her, the intermingling scents of blood and frost and something flowery like daisies or dandelions. It stung his nose. She was watching him, her face almost completely healed, little beads of red ice dotting her cheeks like blood stars. "Oh my god…"

"Is that a no, then?" Ilse sighed. "That's fine. I didn't exactly expect you to be kissing the ground she walked on, but at least you like her a little better now. Are you enjoying the attention, Annie?"

A soft little sob escaped her lips, so quiet that only Jean, whose ear was pressed to her chin, could hear the sound.

"Can you just stop?" Jean snapped at Ilse, sitting up straight and unbuttoning his coat. He glared up at Ilse, who stood behind him, flicking through his phone. "What the fuck were you trying to prove? That I'm not a killer? Congratu-fuckin'-lations, I'm not a fucking killer, now can you fucking _leave_?"

Ilse stared at him for a moment, and stifled a laugh into her bloody palm. He flushed in frustration and embarrassment, glowering up at her as he tugged his coat off and laid it carefully over Annie's quaking body. It all but swallowed her up whole, except her feet and head. She tucked her chin into the fabric, and she closed her eyes, and Jean forgot for a moment that she had killed his best friend.

"Is this a picture of me?" Ilse stared at the phone, blinking curiously with her thumb pressed to the screen. "How sweet."

"I know that's not you," Jean said, shaking and wondering if he was actually right, and wondering who the fuck this woman was.

"Well it sure looks like me." She smiled dimly at Jean. "You sent a picture to Petra Ral."

"Yeah?" He couldn't deny it. She had his phone. _Maybe I can shoot her_, he thought. _Prove to her that she's wrong, that I am a killer_. But he didn't think she was wrong. He didn't want to kill anyone.

Ilse sighed. "You really need to be smarter," she muttered, closing her eyes. "I'm really sorry, you know. You got roped into this, and that might partially be my fault. I'm so stupid sometimes." Her eyes snapped open, warm and glowing with remorse. "But listen to me. This needs to end here. You aren't a killer, but you aren't a hero either. Just please, for your sake, and for Petra Ral's, stop."

"What?" Jean said flatly.

"Just leave him alone," Annie mumbled from behind Jean. When he looked back at her, he saw that she was sitting up now, bundling herself up in his coat. "He's so stupid, he… he doesn't know anything, and you're making it worse."

"She's defending you." Ilse smiled warmly. "She must like you now. Isn't it funny what a little kindness can do?"

"I don't want her to like me," Jean snapped. "I don't want to like her, either. She still killed Marco, and this doesn't change anything!"

"Now," Ilse laughed, "you're more honest than that, I'd think! You don't hate her at all. You pity her, actually, and I can't say I blame you."

"I hope the day comes when people begin to pity you," Annie said suddenly in a hoarse, throaty voice. "When you lose everything you've worked for."

"If you want to die so badly," Ilse told Annie coldly, her demeanor growing dim for the first time since she'd appeared, "there are quite a few guns around. Be my guest."

Jean saw tears in Annie's eyes, but she blinked them back and rose to her feet. She turned away from them, and Jean snatched her wrist, suddenly terrified that she would take Ilse's advice. "She's right, okay? I lied. I don't hate you." He rounded on Ilse, his eyes widening. "I'm leaving. You're a crazy fucking bitch, and I've had it up to my ears in this bullshit." He pulled at Annie's wrist, hoping that she would just willingly budge, maybe, so this would be easier. He didn't know what he'd do with her. He didn't think jail would do her any good, not until they understood what was actually going on. Why she had killed Marco in the first place. _Armin can get it out of her_, Jean thought. _She likes him, I think_…

But Annie didn't move.

He looked back at her, his brow furrowing. "Come on," he hissed, watching her press her lips into his coat and stare ahead without truly seeing him. "I won't take you to the police, I promise."

"You honestly think she'll come with you?" Ilse's voice never got annoying, which was eerie. It was pleasant to hear. Like a silky lullaby. _Help_, he thought. _Get me away from her_… "Jean, she won't leave me. She loves me. Why do you think she let me beat her until the brink of death, and then beat her some more?" Ilse's pretty face was bright with awe and curiosity and beauty and Jean wanted to smash it right in, he was so sick on her grace and loveliness and pretty words. She was terrible, but she was wonderful too. "Why do you think she killed your friend when I told her to?"

Jean felt so sick. His fingers loosened around Annie's wrist, and then tightened ten fold. He felt her cold, hard fingers beneath the fabric of his coat, and she was holding his wrist too. _She's terrified_, Jean thought. _Oh my god, she can't stay with this chick, I can't let her stay with her if this is what she is_. Jean didn't know very much about abusive relationships, but he'd seen enough here to know that Annie could not stay with Ilse any longer.

There was a fleeting thought in Jean's mind that maybe Annie could have disobeyed an order to kill Marco, but he shooed it away. He felt guilty for this entire situation. Fuck him, fuck Ilse, fuck this entire day, this was bullshit!

"You made her kill Marco?" Jean whispered.

"And now you hate me instead of her." She smiled grimly. "Kindness breeds affection, and cruelty breeds animosity. It's a life I've chosen to live, if only to give me some solace. You were never a part of the plan, though. I don't know where I went wrong, there. So, please." Ilse took a step toward them, and Jean ushered Annie back, hoping her could just shield her a little bit from this woman's words. "Quit. The world doesn't need you. Do yourself a favor and get out of this while you're still alive."

"You want me to stop being a hero," Jean said flatly. "I'd sooner kill you, honestly."

Ilse winced. "I don't doubt that!" She smiled weakly. "Which is why I'm going to make you a deal. You quit this charade, and let yourself live a little longer… or, I can kill Petra Ral." Ilse glanced down at Jean's phone. "Or, rather, Annie will."

"I… wait, what?" Jean felt a terrible cold, heavy stone drop into his stomach. "Why…? Why would you…?"

"She knows way too much for someone so insignificant." Ilse closed her eyes, and she shrugged. "You're lucky. You're not insignificant."

"Lucky?" Jean choked, his heart pounding in terror. "Oh my god." He stumbled away from Ilse, forgetting his phone, forgetting his gun, forgetting everything but Annie's wrist in his shaky hand. He yanked her forward, and she pulled back, and he looked at her sharply, her eyes wide and gauzy and desperate. He couldn't just leave her, but he couldn't just leave Petra either. He had to tell the team about this. It was bigger than him now, and he couldn't be stupid about it. He had to be a hero now.

"Annie, come on," he pleaded with her.

Her eyes moved to Ilse, and darted away hastily. She bowed her head, and opened her mouth. Not a word escaped it, and so Jean decided, with a heavy heart, that he needed to let her go.

Her arm hovered in midair as he released it, drooping sadly as he pushed away from the clearing and Ilse and the threat looming over his head.

He ended up running for a good twenty minutes, adrenaline his only means of travel, and he only stopped when he made it to a bus station. He padded himself down, breathing erratic and chest ablaze, and he found his wallet, thankfully, still in his jeans. He may have lost his coat, his phone, and the photo of Ilse Langner, but at least he still had money.

"Hi," he rasped, stepping up to the ticket booth and rubbing his face with shaky hands. "Hi."

The girl working was plump, with a tired face and a stud in her raised eyebrow. _C'mon_, Jean thought, _you've seen weirder folks than me today, you had to have_. He coughed into his elbow, his throat tasting metallic and dry from running. His voice was always dull and throaty, but now it was likely disgustingly hoarse.

"Are you in trouble, kid?" the girl asked, eying him suspiciously.

"No," he said. "Can I get a ticket for the next bus to Champaign?"

She studied him with wary eyes, and rung him out hesitantly. Jean was unlucky. He looked enough like the trashy stoner he actually was to warrant adult mistrust. And he could smell the forest floor on his skin, feel the little scrapes from his tumble down the hill, feel leaves clinging to his hair and his clothes. His holster was in plain view, he realized as he took his ticket to the small line of payphones lining a wall. He tore it off, glad that he'd only brought one gun with him, and he chucked the holster into a garbage bin.

His bus left in twenty minutes, and he had a few phone calls to make.

First and foremost, he called his mother and told her that he would be home late. She asked why, and he told her that Mikasa had asked him to check up on one of her friends. Which was like, half a lie? Petra was Mikasa's friend, not Jean's. Jean was lucky he knew she lived in Champaign. Next he called Verizon to tell them his phone had been stolen, so they would lock it, or delete all his shit, or whatever. That took entirely too long, and by the time he was done speaking to the wheezy man on the phone, he had five minutes.

Next, he called Armin. He didn't know Petra's number by heart.

He stood for as the line rung, pressing a grimy, bulky black receiver to his cheek, emptying out his pockets for anything useful. He wished he'd shot Ilse while he had the chance. He wished he could kill someone, that it could be within his capabilities, but he was scared that it wasn't, that Ilse was totally right about him.

"_Hello_…?"

"Armin!" Jean was thankful the boy had actually answered. "Hey. Hey. It's Jean, I'm using a payphone. Look, I am… I'm not even sure what just happened to me, I'm kinda shaking and ready to piss myself, I'm so fucking done."

"_What_?" Armin asked. "_Jeez, what happened_?" In the background he heard a tiny feminine voice ask who he was talking to.

"Who's that?" Jean asked, feeling jittery.

"_Historia_," Armin replied. "_We were watching American Horror Story. So wait, what happened_?"

Jean had the mental image of the two unbearably tiny blondes sitting in front of a television in a dim room, making snide comments over the quality of the horror they were observing. He couldn't imagine either of them being scared, despite their frail appearances.

"Okay, right." Jean leaned back and pulled out his set of lockpicks. He didn't have time, or a pen, so this was how it was gonna go down. He closed his eyes, and picked the sharpest one he could find. "Can you give me Petra Ral's phone number?"

"Um… yeah, sure." He paused, and Jean shoved what he could back into his pockets, leaning away from the payphone to check the time. He was cutting it so fucking close, and he couldn't wait for another bus. After a few seconds, Armin listed off a number, and Jean got the first number into his forearm while he listed the rest. "Slower," he hissed, numbly wondering how fucked over he was going to be if this got infected. It stung, but he'd expected it, and he was too shocked and panicked to really care. This wasn't smart, but it was the best he could come up with.

His left forearm was a little inflamed when he was done, thin beads of blood surfacing against the dull numbers. "Thanks," he said thickly. "I've gotta go, but I swear I'll tell you everything as soon as I get to another phone, okay? Okay, bye."

He slammed the phone back onto the hook, feeling a little dizzy and sick, and he checked out the numbers to make sure he pressed hard enough so they wouldn't fade. Since some of them were bleeding, he figured it was okay, and he rolled his sleeve over the scratches, rushing to catch his bus.

The ride was excruciatingly long, and he had nothing to do but wallow in his own head, which wasn't fun, because he actually didn't have very many positive things in there as of late, y'know? He spotted an elderly lady on a cell phone a seat in front of him, and he tapped her on the shoulder. She looked at him curiously, and then warily, and he smiled as best he could.

"Hi, sorry to bother you," he said, scratching at the fading numbers on his arm. "I'm visiting my sister, it's like, this huge thing, she's getting married in a month and I have to look at houses with her…" Jean didn't know where this was coming from, but the lady took the bait immediately upon hearing the word "married". "But the thing is, she's at her boyfriend's house, and I have no idea where that is, and my phone recently got stolen, and I'm really sorry to bother you about this, but can I borrow yours?"

"Oh," the lady gasped. "Oh, my, of course!" She handed it over to Jean, who collapsed back into his seat and yanked back his sleeve, eying the woman so she didn't see him taking the phone number he was dialing from his arm. The tone rung, and rung, and rung, and went to voice mail. Jean bit back a swear, and he tried again.

"_Hello_?" Petra asked tentatively, her voice a little foreign to him. He knew her by default of, well, knowing of her. They'd never actually met.

"Petra, it's Jean," he said, sinking into his seat and watching the sun dip lower into the sky. It was sunset. When had that happened? "I'm on the bus now, but I'll be totally lost when I get to Champaign, so can you give me an address so I'm not sleeping on a park bench?"

He wanted to sound casual, but he was still shaking from what had happened in the woods. His voice sounded panicked and forceful, a rasp and a gasp away from sobbing.

"_What_?" Petra asked. "_Wait. I'm sorry, Jean, did I miss something? Between you sending me that photo and now? You sound kinda… sorry, but you honestly sound like you're about to pass out. Are you okay_?"

"Fine," he lied dimly, "really. But, seriously, my phone got stolen by this awful freckle-faced girl, and I'm using this really nice lady's phone to talk to you, so could you give me that address? I feel bad keeping her waiting."

"_Oh, wow, okay_." Petra sounded as though she caught onto the severity of the situation. "_Jesus, okay. What bus station, and when? I can come pick you up_."

_Don't leave the house_, Jean wanted to shout. But he didn't know how to tell her that he life was in danger. So instead, he said, "I think I'll be there in about an hour, at Illinois Terminal. Is that okay?"

"_That's cool_," Petra said. "_I'm looking forward to an explanation, but I understand why you can't give one. I'll be there, okay? Hold tight_."

"Thanks, Petra," Jean said quietly. "See you soon."

"_Yep_!"

_Why would anyone want to kill her?_ Jean thought, hanging up the phone and returning it to the lady in front of him. He sat, feeling empty and sickened, his fingernails grazing the scratches left on his arms by his lockpick. He wished he could just fall asleep, and wake up to find that the past few weeks have been a terrible dream.

He was not so foolish to put stock in such wishes, though.

"So your sister is coming to pick you up?" the lady asked. Jean inwardly groaned, staring out the window into the fire-lit twilight.

"Yes," Jean said. "Y-yeah, she's coming."

"That's nice," she said genially.

Jean nodded. Yes, it was incredibly nice of Petra to do this for him. Far too nice, really, considering he was practically a stranger. He thought about Annie, then, who was also practically a stranger, and he rubbed his face furiously. He needed to snap out of this. Marco was dead, Annie was, like, a slave or something, and Petra was in danger.

Why did this have to happen to him, though? If Mikasa had been in his place, Ilse would've been down before she could've hurt Annie. _Would Mikasa have pulled the trigger, though?_ He didn't know. He had Mikasa on a pedestal, but that didn't mean he didn't think she was capable of terrible things.

He got off the bus as fast as he could, and when he didn't see Petra immediately he felt anxious and a little terrified. _What if she's dead?_ he thought, pacing between dimly lit aisles of seats, scratching at his forearm. _What if she's lying in an alley somewhere already, with her face crushed and half-frozen?_ He was so scared for Petra Ral that he realized he didn't actually know what she looked like.

He was fucking stupid, actually.

A tiny girl walked into the terminal, her eyes finding Jean's, and there was a mutual stare of confusion and apprehension. Jean had imagined Petra… well, taller? Yeah. Otherwise, he didn't really know. She was cute, with short strawberry blonde hair and she wore a teal dress that wavered around her knees as she walked up to him.

"Jean?" she asked with a weak smile.

"Yeah." He was relieved to see her alive, but now he had to actually explain what had happened to him, and honestly he wasn't really so sure now. What the fuck had Ilse been talking about? "Hi. Thank you so much for not hanging up on me, seriously. I know I probably sounded… well, insane."

"I was a little too worried to care, honestly." Petra folded her arms behind her back, and she shrugged. "Well, come on. Whatever you need to tell me, you can tell me at my apartment. Hope you don't mind, I have a roommate. He's an asshole, but you get used to him."

"Auruo," Jean said, nodding. "I know. Mikasa told me about him."

She led him outside and laughed easily. "Did she tell you he's an ass?" He followed her to an old yellow Beatle. "Because he is."

"I'm pretty sure Mikasa thinks I'm an ass," Jean offered, "so…"

"Oh, really?" Petra shook her head as she got into the driver's seat. "Well, it can't mean much. She thinks Levi's an ass too."

"Levi _is_ an ass," he mumbled, sinking into his seat. He put his seatbelt on, blinking at the dark sky. He was lucky Petra lived in Illinois.

She sighed as she started the car, taking them off somewhere, Jean didn't know where. He'd never been to Champaign before. "Yes, that seems to be the case…" She stared ahead, drumming her thumbs against her steering wheel. "Although, not as much as you might think."

"I don't even care." Jean pinched the bridge of his nose. "He always creeped me out."

She said nothing, if she cared, but he sensed she did. Her knuckles clenched the steering wheel, and he wondered what Levi had done for this woman to get in her good favors. She seemed too nice. Mikasa at least knew Levi was a scumbag. She seemed to like him far more than Mikasa did, and Mikasa had been raised by him.

"I said something wrong," Jean observed. "I'm sorry. I'm not here to make you angry, I swear."

Petra laughed. "God, no, don't apologize." She sounded a little sad, and she glanced at Jean. "I know he's not the most approachable person. He has his reasons. Sometimes I wish he'd just be a little kinder, but it's like wishing for a mountain to move. Totally a waste of time."

"Um…" Jean peered at her curiously. "Can I ask…?"

She smiled as though she'd been expecting this. "Why I'm so loyal to him?"

"Yeah…"

"Well, it's a little bit of a long story." She adjusted her grip on the steering wheel as she turned. "But, basically, Levi saved my life when I was a teenager. It… cost him a lot." She looked at Jean, her eyes very somber, and her lips very thin, and her shoulders slumped. "He told me once that he could never regret saving me, no matter what the outcome ended up being. If you knew Levi, and you knew how he talked, you'd know how much that means. I popped into his life at the worst time, and I've seen him at his worst, which is definitely saying a lot." She smiled brightly then. "But I'm still here! And I owe that to him."

"Why did it… cost him… to save your life?" Jean wondered, leaning his head back.

"That's not a my business to tell."

Jean nodded, though his curiosity was killing him. He might've started to tell her about how her life was in huge danger, but he didn't want to scare her while she was driving, so he kept her focused on Levi. It was actually a nice distraction. Jean didn't know much about Levi, beyond common knowledge and what he'd observed.

"You don't think he's weird with Mikasa, though?" Jean found himself wondering aloud.

"What do you mean?"

He sighed. "I don't know… he always just rubbed me the wrong way when he was around her. Like, he didn't act like her dad, but he didn't act exactly friendly either. He was just always sorta there."

"Levi loves Mikasa." Petra sounded so certain, Jean was actually alarmed by her words. "That girl brings out the best in him, if you can believe it. He cleaned himself up for her, gave her a home, and he's followed her wherever she's chosen to go. I know it's hard for you to see, because you don't know him, but Mikasa is so important to him… I don't know what he'd do if he lost her."

He was caught completely off guard. Never had he imagined hearing about Levi like this. He had never seen Levi as the type to… just, love in general? He supposed that it made sense that Mikasa was his morality pet, but the idea that he truly loved her? It was strange.

"He doesn't act like it," Jean muttered.

"Levi has trouble with intimacy," she said. "He doesn't like touching people, or being touched, but he does show his affection in other ways. Name calling is a huge one. He's big on affectionate cursing. Talking, talking is big. Levi never opens up unless he's really, really comfortable, so if he starts holding conversations with you, you're in his good favors for sure. He likes to bicker, too, if he's _really_ comfortable with you." She smiled at Jean. "Is he beginning to make sense to you yet?"

_Oh jeez_, Jean thought, blinking at Petra in wonder. _I thought I had it bad_. His crush on Mikasa had never been a secret, except maybe to her, but damn. Petra Ral definitely was afflicted with something with a little more than a crush. _We're in the same boat, pursuing people who are too strong and too stubborn to see what we're actually feeling_. Jean didn't think he was in love with Mikasa, though. He liked her a lot, like a lot, a lot, but he didn't know if the thing he was feeling was love, fondness, or lust.

"You didn't come all the way here to talk about Levi, though," she said, pursing her lips. "Wow. I'm blabbing. I'm so sorry."

"Actually, I don't mind," he admitted. "It's definitely a welcome distraction."

"You seem really shaken up…" She glanced at him, and turned her eyes quickly back to the road. "What happened? You said… Ymir? Was that who you were talking about?"

"I wish," Jean murmured. "No. It wasn't Ymir. Ymir is actually funny, and not all that bad to be around, even though she's weird as fuck. I met Ilse."

"Ilse." Petra seemed to test the name, and she frowned. "There's a difference now?"

"Connie was killed by a woman named Ilse when he was younger," he said. "And then given super speed when the doctors brought him back."

"Wow. And she looks like Ymir?"

"Yeah, but… not…" Jean didn't know how to explain this. "Okay, they look really alike, like they might be related and probably are, but at the same time Ilse was different. Her skin, for one, is way lighter, and her face is rounder, and she looks like something completely unnatural. Unreal. Like, gorgeous, but in a terrifying sort of way. Ymir is really pretty, and sorta unnatural, but not on the same scale."

"Okay." Petra nodded. "I'm getting it. They're two completely different people. So why does the girl in the photo have two names, and which girl is she?"

That was a really good question that Jean did not have the answer to.

"The news I have is not good news," he warned her. She nodded. "I wish it was something worth something, but it's not. It's just… scary. And it involves you."

"Oh, that's exciting," she cooed. "Scary news involving me. Must be my birthday."

He actually snorted at that. "I'm serious, it scared the shit out of me. It's kinda why I'm here."

"I'm sure it's very scary," she said, nodding once more. "It's just, I used to be in a gang."

"Wait…" Jean sat up straighter, and stared at her incredulously. She glanced at him with a smirk. "No way, like a legit fucking gang?"

"I never offed a man, but I did castrate one."

"No."

"Yes."

Jean shuddered, and nodded grimly. "Remind me to never make you angry."

She laughed, and he decided that Levi didn't deserve her. She was a genuinely cool, genuinely nice person, if not a little frightening, and Levi didn't deserve someone so interesting, not when he had clearly roped her into some bullshit along the line of their friendship.

Petra parked the car and led Jean to a decent apartment building, chatting to him amiably about the Ilse and Ymir situation, while Jean tried to figure out how to tell her that Annie Leonhardt might be forced to kill her in the near future. She kicked her door open, tossing her keys into a dish on a table near the door. The door opened right into her living room, and Jean came face to face with Auruo Bossard, a man who looked like he smoked even more cigarettes a day than Jean.

"Is this the brat?" Auruo's eyes flicked over Jean once, and he scoffed. "Skinny bastard."

"This boy spends his nights scaling skyscrapers," Petra said coldly, "while you spend your nights crying into a bowl of Doritos over Downton Abbey. Get your feet off the table."

"Tch." Auruo removed his feet from the small rectangular coffee table that sat in the center of the room, and he rose to his feet. "You don't know what you're talking about, Petra."

"I've watched it with you," Petra said, "I _know_."

Jean cleared his throat, rocking back and forth on his heels. He was kinda concerned about other things, and he could do without the bickering for right now. He was in a hurry. Auruo and Petra glanced at him, and she smiled, grasping his arm and dragging him toward the sofa.

"Do you want something?" she asked gently. "Tea, maybe? Or something to eat? I know the bus ride was probably long."

Jean felt a little guilty intruding like this, but he hadn't eaten since he'd had that granola bar in the woods. "A coke is fine, and… something to eat, anything. Uh, please." He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "Thanks."

"No problem!" She smiled at him very sweetly. "Auruo."

"You're joking."

"We have a guest who clearly isn't here for you, so go be hospitable and grab something from the kitchen while I do my job, kay?"

Auruo looked grumpy as Petra sat down on the couch, gesturing to Jean to sit as well. He did, rolling up his shirt to scratch at the faded numbers. Auruo had disappeared into the kitchen, and Petra was watching him with her eyes narrowing. She snatched his wrist and stared at the partially faded, partially raised, partially carved letters.

"Oh my god," Petra gasped, turning his arm toward her and running her thumb over the scratches. "Jean, what did you do?"

"I didn't have a pen," he said, pulling his arm carefully away from her. "It was really important that I got a hold of you. I didn't have the time to go look for a pen."

"Auruo!" Petra called, twisted her head back toward the doorway that likely led into the kitchen. "Bring out some disinfectant and bandages when you have the chance!"

"What?" Auruo called back. Petra groaned, and she shook her head.

"Guess I've gotta get it myself," she said, moving to push off the couch. Jean stopped her.

"It's not important," he said, shaking his head furiously. "Listen, you're in danger."

She smiled thinly, and tilted her head. Her large amber eyes grew hazy with confusion. "What?" She leaned back against the couch, and laughed a little. "From what? Has the government finally caught up with me?" Auruo decided to walk in at that moment. "Auruo, we've been found out. Grab the jewels, let's hit the road."

"This isn't a joke!" Jean jumped to his feet, looking between Auruo and Petra with pleading eyes. "I watched Ilse torture Annie today. I mean, like, she _really_ tortured her. Broke her arms and legs and stabbed her and cut her open over and over, 'cause Annie's got regenerative healing. I saw that, and I… I didn't do anything…" Jean ran his fingers through his hair, and whirled away from them. "I hated Annie so much for killing Marco, I wanted her to suffer, and that's why Ilse tortured her, to make me not hate Annie anymore, and it _worked_. I can't hate Annie, it wasn't her fault that Marco died. I… she's like, a dog, or something, for Ilse, and that institute the others are always talking about. She just does was she's told, or else they'll… hurt her… maybe…" Jean swallowed thickly, and he glanced at Petra. "I don't know."

"Jean," Petra said softly. "Calm down. It's okay. Just breathe."

"I'm calm," Jean said, dropping his arms to his side. "I'm super calm, all things considering. Ilse told me to quit being a hero."

"For real?" Auruo scoffed. "Why should she care if you're a hero or not?"

"I…" Jean hadn't thought of it. Hadn't Ilse called him significant? _Ew, fuck_, he thought. _What does this institute place want from me?_ "I don't know. But she told me that she'd kill Petra if I didn't."

"What?" Petra looked at him with one eyebrow acutely raised. "I'm sorry, but… why? I mean nothing to you. We only just formally met."

"I don't know," Jean croaked, shaking his head. "I mean, I sent you that picture, and Ilse saw that. Maybe she just thinks you know too much, I don't know."

"Should I be afraid?" Petra frowned, resting her elbows on her knees. Her beige cardigan bunched against her fists as she rested her chin in her hands. "Lots of people have tried to kill me before."

"That's true," Auruo piped up. "For such a pretty face, she's got a pretty big number on her head."

"I've pissed off a lot of powerful people in my line of work." Petra smiled brightly. "Speaking of, I have some names for you. Not you specifically, but the team."

"You're not scared." Jean didn't understand this. He'd come all this way, and Petra was utterly unfazed by this. "You're not even a little scared. Petra, Annie is going to kill you."

"I thought Annie was nice now?"

"That's what I heard," Auruo said, popping a chip into his mouth.

"She's still a dog on Ilse's short fucking leash," Jean snapped. "And she can still freeze your brain and shatter it into a million pieces. Easily."

Petra glanced at Auruo, who was staring at Jean with a somber expression. He grimaced, and his lined face seemed to crumple as he turned his attention to Petra, his lips thinning out. "We shouldn't take the chance," he said hesitantly. "We should tell Levi about this. See what he thinks we should do."

She nodded, though she didn't look to sure, and she looked at Jean. "It's interesting," she said softly, "how quitting being a hero isn't even an option for you."

Jean had considered it, of course, but what was the point? Ilse could easily just kill Petra if he quit anyway. No, this wasn't going to happen the way Ilse wanted. They were going to undermine her. One way or another.

"I can't quit knowing the person responsible for Marco's death is still out there," Jean said steadily. "After that, maybe. But for right now, me staying out of this probably won't solve anything. We need to get ahead of Ilse, and playing into her hands is not the way to do it."

"Agreed." Petra smiled, albeit a little grimly. "I'm glad. Honestly, I wish I could help more. I'd kill to actually do field work."

_A little late for that_, Jean thought. "What's stopped you?" he asked curiously. "You seem more equipped to handle the streets than me."

"Oh, she is," Auruo confirmed, smirking when Petra shot him a glare. "What? You are!"

"I wanted to have a relatively normal life," she said. "It's kinda why our gang broke up in the first place. Aside from Levi, you know, checking himself into what we thought was rehab."

"Wait, really? That's what he told you it was?"

"Yeah…"

Jean was not entirely sure how to proceed. He'd told her what he'd needed to tell her, and now…? He wasn't good at planning. He had some good instincts, and he was skilled enough when it came to carrying them out, but otherwise he was pretty obsolete. He couldn't protect Petra Ral against Annie.

"I can't protect you," he blurted. Petra looked at him curiously. "You can't protect yourself, either. Annie's too good. She beat Levi. She killed Marco, who was always better at martial arts than me. I think you're best bet is to get out of here, find somewhere safe to go, and have a few body guards who _can_ take Annie."

"You say that like it's easy, kid," Auruo said quietly. Petra was sitting quietly, pressing her lips to her folded hands and staring pensively ahead of her.

"I wouldn't want to bother Levi about this," Petra said, "but I can't think of anyone or anywhere else to go to. I can't put my dad in danger."

"I love you, Pet," Auruo said, "but I can't put my family in danger for you either. Me, yeah, I'd die for you, but not my family."

She smiled up at him fondly, and Jean realized it was the first time she was looking at him like more than a nuisance. They must have been very good friends. _Or maybe more than that?_ Jean couldn't really tell. "I'd beat the shit out of you if it was any other way," she told him brightly. She turned back to Jean, her face growing very grave. "I'll call Levi. New York seems like my best bet, I think."

"Oh." Jean had forgotten that he had to call Armin. "Actually, can I use your phone? I have to give the team an update on what… just happened. Whatever that actually was."

What a weird day.

Petra nodded and tossed her phone at him. She told him that she wanted to go get her computer to go over the basics of what information she actually had, which was probably a good idea, because it seemed like she probably knew more than all of them combined at this point. It was so hard to communicate when everyone was so scattered.

Armin answered with a quiet, "_Petra_?"

"Jean, actually." He fished a few chips out of the bowl Auruo had set on the table, and he collapsed onto the couch, feeling exhausted and sick. "Hey. My phone got stolen. Did I tell you that?"

"_I'd assumed something happened to yours since you were calling from a payphone_." Armin sounded a little amused, but mostly weary. "_What happened_?"

Jean took a deep breath. "Well, short story," he said, resting his head back and watching shadows dance across the smooth, egg-white ceiling. "I ran into Annie in the woods after a dog stole the picture of Ilse-Ymir I got from Marigold, and then the actual real live Ilse appeared and tortured Annie because she knew I hated her, and she wanted me to not hate her, I don't even know, it was fucking crazy, and then just when I thought it was over Ilse told me to quit being a hero or else she'd kill Petra."

Had he covered everything? Well, the silence that stretched between them was enough for Jean to squirm, so he hoped so. Armin was unnaturally quiet, actually, which made Jean worried. _Is he okay?_ Jean wondered. He hadn't seen Armin since the funeral.

"_Um_," Armin said, "_wow_…"

"Yeah."

"_I don't know how I'm supposed to respond to that, sorry_."

"No biggie, I feel you."

"_Is Annie okay_?" he asked tentatively. "_Are you okay? Is _Petra_ okay_?"

"Me and Petra are fine," Jean said, "but I had to leave Annie. Dude, she was really shaken up. Like, I don't even know, but I think Ilse and your institute have her under their thumb."

"_They're controlling her_?"

"I guess!" Jean found himself throwing his arm into the air. "It's totally insane! I wish I could just show it to you mentally, because it was the craziest thing. I can't describe it."

"_It's probably better this way_," Armin said quietly. "_I don't want to know the details. Um… I should tell Levi, Erwin, and Hange about this. Can I call you back once we have a clear plan_?"

I don't think we have that kind of time. "No," Jean said. "We need a place for Petra now. Specifically, a place where she can be protected from Annie. You guys have so many overpowered assholes, I think you can manage."

"_Here_?" Armin squeaked. "_Oh. Shit. No_."

"What?" Jean sat up straight, staring ahead of him. Petra had appeared in the room again, Auruo close behind her, and she was watching Jean curiously. "What do you mean, no?"

"_She can't stay here, Jean_," he said. "_Don't send her here. Don't send her anywhere near here_."

"Why?" Jean gasped. "What's wrong with there?"

He listened as Armin's breath caught in the receiver, a sharp intake that made the boy's anxiety clear. "_I can't explain it_," Armin said weakly, "_but it's not safe here. We can definitely spare the muscle to protect her, but don't send her anywhere near here. Send her somewhere safe. Oh, and don't tell me where_!"

"Why?" he cried incredulously. "Jesus fucking Christ, are you okay?"

"_No, not really_," Armin admitted. "_I don't know, Jean. I can't say where my mind is half the time. Anyone can be inside it. Don't tell me where she is. I don't want to know. I don't want that to be on my hands. Just take her somewhere safe, and protect her if you can, and I'll talk to Levi about it. We'll figure something out_."

"Um, okay," he said weakly. "I'll do that."

"_Good. Thanks. I'm going to go talk to Levi, so expect a call from him, probably_?"

"Sure…" Jean listened as the boy hung up, and he sat on Petra's couch, staring at her open laptop in bewilderment. He set Petra's phone in his lap, and grimaced. "That was fucking weird."

"Not in a good way, I'm guessing?" Petra asked, leaning on the back of the sofa Jean was sitting on.

Jean shook his head, jumping to his feet. Armin had scared him. Genuinely, Jean was suddenly terrified for Petra's life again, and he didn't know what to do. He ran his fingers through his hair, his mind running very fast as he tried to come up with a solution. Armin was supposed to be the smart one. Why did he leave something so huge up to Jean? Jean wasn't good a decisions!

"Fuck," he swore, whirling to face Petra. "Go pack. As little as you can to last you as long as it can, and pack like you're never coming back."

Petra stared at him, and her eyes darted to Auruo's face. The man stood there, looking equally stunned, his mouth parting in confusion. "Are you sure about this?" Petra asked. "We're not even really sure if I'm actually—"

"Please," he pleaded, staring at her with a desperate gaze. "I can't protect you, and I don't want anyone else dying because this institute place doesn't want to play fair."

She looked a lot older then, her shoulders slumping in resignation. She nodded vacantly. "Where am I going?" she asked softly.

"Connie isn't powerful," Jean said, "but he's fast. I think he'd stand a chance against Annie as long as he's got Sasha with him. Also, his parents know he's a hero, so you'd probably be welcome. I'll call him to make sure, but he won't turn you away."

"Okay," Petra said distantly. She looked as though her will had been torn from her, her eyes cast away from Jean's face. _No_, he thought, watching her eyes. _She's steeling herself because she knows this is the surest way to safety_. "Can you call Nifa, Auruo? I'm not taking a bus to… Oregon, is it?"

"Yeah."

Petra sighed, rubbing her eyes as she nodded. Guilt pricked at Jean's senses. He was uprooting her entire life because some lady made a threat at him in the woods, a threat that could mean very little. But Jean had seen what Annie had done to Marco, and he couldn't take the chance. He didn't want anything like that to happen to anyone ever again. He also didn't want Annie to be forced to kill anyone again.

"I'll call," Auruo said softly, "and then help you pack."

"Okay…" Petra turned away from them. As she moved toward on of the doors that connected to the living room, she spun around and stared at Jean with wide eyes. He stared back, alarmed. "Thank you, Jean. You didn't have to go through so much trouble for me."

"You've done a lot for us," Jean said. "And you definitely don't deserve to die."

She laughed a little, though he could tell she was nervous, and probably a little terrified. He was glad she was beginning to react appropriately to the situation. Then she entered her room, leaving Jean with Auruo, who watched him blankly for a few short seconds.

"We're putting a lot of trust in you," Auruo said. "Petra's got good instincts, so I'll go along with it. But if anything happens to her, I'll fucking kill you, got it?"

_Try it_, Jean wanted to snap back. Instead he nodded and collapsed back onto the sofa, his entire body aching. He looked at Petra's laptop, sitting wide open with its screen gleaming at Jean tantalizingly. He reached forward, turning it slightly toward him, and he scanned the list of names Petra had compiled. None of them meant particularly much to Jean, but one made him do a double take. He leaned forward, his confusion muddling his senses as he squinted at the hazy white screen.

This was the last straw. This day was too fucking weird. He was going to call his mother and tell her that he was going to sleep here. This was too fucking much.

_Kenny Ackerman?_ Jean thought dumbly. _Like, Mikasa?_

Aloud, he said, "What kind of douchebag name is _Kenny_?"

* * *

_If you're wondering why Jean didn't call Connie back after he hung up on him, he fell asleep. Yes. He is piece of trash. It's completely in character. _

_My feelings about Kenny Ackerman get so meta here it's not even funny. Actually it is, it's hilarious._

_I updated weirdly early because chapter thirty is shorter than usual, and it was really fun to write. I have an assignment due tomorrow for AP, and I have a bunch of prompts to fill, but that shouldn't really change much because I want this story done. And I'm really close to finishing._

_Hope you enjoyed the Annie torture, btw. _


	23. the parts of the play

**dramatis personae**

**Manhattan, New York**

_a.d. pr. Kalendas Novembres, 2677 A.U.C_

The blood wouldn't stop.

She'd tried absorbing it with tissues, sopping it up with toilet paper and paper towels, but it only turned her fingers red, only dragged streaks of crimson across the tile floor, and Mikasa gritted her teeth as she tossed reddened tissue after reddened tissue into the toilet. She had never imagined she could bleed so much from something so small.

Mikasa propped up her bleeding foot on the toilet seat, wincing as she pried her bloody toes apart and stuck bits of tissue between the battered spaces, letting them soak red as she tried to pinpoint exactly where she was bleeding from. The nail? The cuticle? As she mopped up the blood, she noticed most of the blood was from several puncture wounds on the side of each of her toes.

After being wiped of blood, Mikasa noticed the shape of her toenails, and she stared at the purplish skin beneath them, wondering how her toes hadn't fallen off yet. Mina had told her that bruising was normal. Bleeding was too.

"It's intense," Mina Carolina had told Mikasa the day after the first lesson. That had been nearly a week ago. "People think dancing is so easy. But I think being stabbed might hurt less than pointe."

_It does_, Mikasa thought glumly, massaging her callused, blistered feet with her bloody fingers. Tears stung her eyes. Being stabbed was at least a one-time deal. After you got stabbed once, you patched it up, slept it off, and did not wake up tomorrow and run into a knife again. But pointe was different. Pointe was actual fucking torture.

"I wasn't meant to be a ballerina," Mikasa had told Mina after their second lesson, when Mikasa's legs had actually given out from under her. She'd been close to tears. _I'm a failure_, she thought in horror. _I'm going to fail everyone. I can't complete this mission_.

"You're amazing!" Mina had gasped, dropping to her knees before Mikasa and grinning in awe. "That sissone was nearly perfect! Have you seriously never done ballet before? You're a natural!"

"I can't be you," Mikasa had said, staring at her pale pink pointe shoes, feeling her toes throb beneath the layer of pretty pink fabric. "There's no way I can learn everything you know by Halloween."

Mikasa didn't tell anyone how hard this assignment actually was. Everyone had assumed, because it was Mikasa, that she could easily learn ballet and perform on a professional scale with a week of training from the ballerina she would be impersonating. The ballet to be performed on Halloween night was called _Giselle_, and Mina Carolina was supposed to play the titular peasant girl. Mikasa had done enough research on the ballet to know she'd be dancing quite a bit, and… she wasn't pleased about it.

"If I could do it," Mina had lamented, "I _would_. But this is the only way to catch that man, right? And there'll be other shows. You're only replacing me for just this one. Don't be so hard on yourself. I know you can do it!"

Mikasa didn't know why Mina had so much faith in her. Mina had, of course, been told that Mikasa was Nio, which had excited the young ballerina greatly. Basically, after Jean had informed them of the involvement of some motherfucker named Kenny Ackerman in the institute, Hange had done some digging in their little network of influence. They found that a man named Kenny Ackerman was on the guest list for a ballet performance on Halloween.

So here she was. Nursing her poor, bleeding, blistered feet. She would rather Levi's training, all the endless days of trading blows, than this torturous method of dance. Mikasa was too heavy to hold all her weight on her toes. And yet, she was forced to be a ballerina. Did people really get pleasure out of this? It was all pain, and little reward. She didn't get it.

The doorknob jostled, and she looked up sharply, tears streaking her face. She'd locked the door, thankfully, so no one could possibly—

Mikasa sat, her back against the bathtub, one foot supported on the toilet seat and the other resting against the cool tile, purplish and swollen. The door opened with a _click_, and she watched with dull, glistening eyes as Levi entered the room quietly, closing the door behind him. She pulled her legs closer, pressing her back harder against the tub, and she stared at him.

"Get out," she said.

He wasn't looking at her. His eyes were on the bloodstains streaking the pallid tile, seeping into the grout. She watched, tired and irritated, as he wrinkled his nose and kicked over a wad of toilet paper, haphazardly mopping up her blood.

"Gross," he said, his shoulders hunching as his attempts did little to clean up smears.

Mikasa sat up straighter, her body stiffening in a defensive position. She'd fight him, if that was what it took, but she was exhausted and anxious and she knew she would lose. But even still, she tucked her chin in and glowered up at the man, her teeth gnashing at each other.

"Get out!" she snapped, feeling much like a wounded animal as Levi's eyes rose to hers. She rested her bloody fingers against her bare calves, and she forced herself to lower her gaze. She couldn't face Levi's scrutiny when she was crying. "I'm fifteen years old, Levi. Give me some fucking privacy."

"I haven't forgotten how old you are, you snot faced brat."

She shot him a glare, but she couldn't hold onto it. She watched him pull a cloth from a drawer and stick it beneath the faucet, flicking it on and letting the rag soak through. She was startled when he knelt down before her, frowning at her bloody foot. "What are you doing?" she asked warily as he took her ankle. "You don't have to—"

"Shut up." Levi wrapped the rag carefully around her blistered foot, and Mikasa grimaced as the water seeped between her toes and stung at the cuts marring her skin. Levi's fingers were nimble enough that he never placed too much pressure on the bruised surface of her feet, and she found herself alarmed and vaguely disturbed. He didn't do things like this for her. He usually left her to fend for herself. This was abnormal.

"Levi," she said. He wiped up the excess blood from her foot, and she watched the fibers of the cloth as it tickled her sole, scraping up against her calluses and running over raised blisters. "What—?"

"You should quit this mission," he said suddenly. He transferred the cold, wet rag to her other foot, which was far less bloody, but still blistered and bruised. She winced as his thumb hit one of her toes the wrong way.

"I'm not quitting anything."

He raised her eyes to hers, and she noticed the rings under them, the waxy hue of his skin against the harsh purplish bruises that dug into his skull. The blue inside his eyes was dull and sad, darkened to the point where she often thought they were closer to her own eye color. She found herself reaching out, her fingers hovering over the mauve semicircles, and he stared at her.

"You haven't been sleeping," she said, unable to keep the accusation out of her tone.

"I'm clean," Levi said darkly, tossing the rag away and leaning back on the heels of his hands. "If that's what you're implying."

"You look terrible," she said.

"You should see what you look like, brat."

She could imagine. Puffy eyed, flushed, splotchy-faced, shaky— oh, she knew so well what tears did for the appearance. And she hated that Levi was seeing her like this. He'd taught her to never be vulnerable, and here she was, crying over some bloody toes in the bathroom. This was pathetic.

Mikasa wiped at her cheeks, and he caught her wrist. "Stop," he said. "Your hands are filthy."

She tore her wrist from his grasp, glaring as she folded her blooded hands together, curling away from him. "What are you even doing?" she asked coolly. "You're being creepy."

"I fucking raised you, I can clean your wounds just fine without it being creepy." He rolled his head back, staring at the ceiling. She realized he had something to talk to her about. This was stranger. Levi never liked confrontation. He avoided saying things, avoided lengthy conversations and awkward small talk. This was odd.

"I didn't ask for any help."

"You don't need to." She studied his features, trying to pinpoint exactly what was wrong here. He glanced at her, his shadowy eyes blinking slowly, and he scowled. "_What_?"

"Are you okay?"

"Your toes are busted to shit, and you're asking me…?" Levi straightened up, and he shook his head in disbelief. "Look. I know I'm not… the best adult figure, or parent surrogate, or… whatever, but still. I do worry about you."

"Wow," she said dully, "you worry. I didn't know that kind of emotion came to you."

"I'm going to shove this rag down your throat," he warned, his eyes narrowing. "Mikasa, I've only ever seen you cry once. Yes, I'm fucking worried."

"You don't need to be," she insisted. "I'm a big girl. You know that. I don't _need_ you to worry about me."

"I'm sick of this conversation," he grunted, glaring at the broken mirror that showed their pallid faces as they crouched upon the floor. Hange had never asked why the mirror was broken, and Mikasa was glad because Armin had enough to worry about. He'd been acting so strange lately, especially after the seizure. Mikasa knew he hadn't gone to the doctor yet. He'd just gone home afterward and slept. Did Erwin know? She wasn't sure. She wasn't sure if anyone knew how extreme Armin's condition was growing aside from herself and Eren. "I didn't come in here to argue with you."

"Shock."

"Ungrateful brat." He watched her, and she realized, a chill skittering down her spine, that he was truly here because he was worried. She looked away, tucking her feet away so she didn't have to look at the sickening discolored swell of her toes. She began to pick away at the drying blood on her fingers, and she sniffed. Her nose was running.

"What do you want?" she asked quietly.

"For one thing," he said, "this mission to be different."

"You think I can't handle a little dancing?"

"You're bait." He shot her a sharp look, and she straightened up reflexively. "You realize that, right? This guy we're chasing is a black market dealer, and Mina Carolina's family is on his shit list, or _something_. We're using you to draw him out."

Yes, she was aware of this. Mina had told her, playing with one of her black pigtails with her baby blue nails catching between the strands. "My family is always getting involved in shady things like this," she had said plainly. "I get thrown into the line of fire because I'm a pretty face worth ransoming. It's why I'm privately tutored. I used to go to a really prestigious private school, but one of the teachers ended up being involved in some shifty dealings, and suddenly I was being kidnapped. I got away, of course. But now all I really do is study and dance. It sucks."

"Like I said." She raised her eyes to Levi's, her brow furrowing. "I'm a big girl. Whoever this guy is, I can take him."

"Not every person you face is the same," he said, his lips pulling back and his teeth baring in frustration. "You can't know you can beat him."

"I will." She raised her head high, finding that she believed her words. She would beat this son of a bitch with her name, whoever he was. "I'm strong."

"Yeah, yeah," he sighed, "I know. Wait, do you tape your toes?"

"What?" she asked flatly.

He looked at her, his brow furrowing as his eyes narrowed. "You're fucking hopeless," he spat.

"What?" Her nostrils flared in aggravation.

"Tape your toes when you're using pointe shoes. It'll still hurt, but it'll probably minimize the damage." He eyed her bruised feet, and she tucked them out of his view, frowning to herself.

"Mina doesn't tape her toes," she said.

"Mina didn't start dancing last week, shithead."

"What do you know about dancing?" Mikasa asked, gritting her teeth as she glared at her feet. He didn't answer immediately, so she focused her attention back upon his face. Her eyes widened. "Wait…"

"I didn't dance a fucking ballet or anything," he snapped.

"Wow." She couldn't help but try and imagine it, but she didn't have the imagination for it. She found herself giggling in spite of herself, and Levi pushed himself to his feet and turned away from her. "Wait, no, don't go. I want to know more."

"No you don't." He'd paused, though, and Mikasa stared at him in awe. Usually he avoided talking about his past. Was he embarrassed of it? She didn't understand what he had to be embarrassed about. "I didn't come in here to talk about shit like that. I only came to see if you were okay. Which, you weren't, so…"

"What kind of dancing did you do?" Mikasa rose to her feet unsteadily, and he whirled around grasping one of her arms and forcing her to stay upright despite the shock of pain that struck up her calves. Her feet were cramping up, and she blinked back her tears.

"I dunno, it was stupid," he said. "Are you going to be able to do this tomorrow?"

"Yes." She pulled away from him, rubbing the soles of her feet across the cool tile. "I'll be fine. I know everything I need to know, and all the other ballerinas know it'll be me on stage with them. Can't really hide how Asian I am up close."

Usually speaking with Levi was all kinds of irritating. They'd trade insults, sometimes trade blows, and drop into a familiar silence. It's just how things went. But he was talking to her, truly talking, and touching her, holding her upright and watching her with an unfamiliar urgency. He was worried, clearly, but also a little panicked. She realized this as she stared into his eyes. He was utterly terrified, and she had no idea why.

She didn't like Levi terrified. It meant she had something to be scared of.

"You're not telling me something," she said.

"I don't tell you a lot of things."

She snorted, but she knew it was true. He had difficulty on that front. She knew it was just who he was, and she wasn't offended, but this was ridiculous. "Tell me this," she demanded, staring down at him. "Tell me what you're scared of."

"Scared?"

"Stop fucking around." She folded her arms across her chest, and she scowled. "I know you better than that."

"You don't know anything," he muttered. He turned his face from her, and wandered toward the door. "Clean this up. When you're done, come to my room."

"Why?" she asked, staring at his back. His shoulders were hunched, and he was favoring one side over the other, his muscles taut beneath the cloth of his tee shirt.

"I want to tell you something."

He left her then, to a bloody bathroom and achy feet. She wiggled her toes for a moment, thinking of all the insults she could shout at his back as he departed, but she didn't. There was something wrong here. Ever since Petra had been threatened by Ilse, Levi had been acting weird. She knew he wanted to go to her, and the only reason why he hadn't was because of this Kenny Ackerman bullshit. It wasn't like they didn't have enough hands on deck for this. Armin, Eren, Historia, Reiner, and Bertholdt were literally doing nothing involving this mission. They could take over for Levi in terms of sheer worrying.

She did what she was told for once and cleaned up. She'd made the mess to begin with, and it was a gory mess. She didn't want Armin or Eren to walk in and find her blood smeared across the floor. The rag was a different story. She had no explanation for it, so she just tossed it in she sink and squirted some soap on it, running cold water over the stain until it dissipated. She washed her hands, and then, finally, ventured out to find Levi.

Her toes were no longer bleeding, which was nice, but they still hurt terribly. She hobbled a little until she got control of her footing, and then she moved as gracefully as she could, remembering Mina's lessons. She needed to remember Mina's lessons, or else this was never going to work. _Why do I always get picked for the gross undercover ops?_ she wondered. She'd been on her way to Levi's room when she caught a bit of a conversation drifting in from the living room.

"— dating _anyone_, okay? It's not exactly high on my list of priorities, and even if it was, it definitely wouldn't be Historia."

_Armin_, Mikasa thought, redirecting her course on impulse. She poked her head into the living room and saw Armin sitting cross-legged on the ground, playing chess with Bertholdt while Reiner watched from the couch.

"You can't blame a guy for asking," Reiner said. "I mean, come on. You two are always together, and like… she doesn't really…" Reiner frowned, and leaned back.

"Talk to anyone," Bertholdt finished for Reiner. "Except you, Armin."

"I understand her, that's all." Armin sighed. "Can we not talk about this? It makes me feel nauseous."

"Oh, is this that sex thing?" Reiner asked. "Sorry, man."

"No, it's not—?" Armin gave Reiner a quizzical look. "I mean, yeah, the thought of sex makes me uncomfortable, but not sick."

"Sor— oh, hey, Mikasa!" Reiner beamed at her, and she ignored him, moving to Armin's side.

_If they're making you uncomfortable_, she thought to him, _I can teach them a lesson_.

_Don't even worry about it_, Armin thought back. _I'm fine. You aren't, though_. "You're hurt," he observed aloud.

"Barely," she said.

"It doesn't feel like barely."

"We have different perceptions of pain." She looked between Reiner and Bertholdt, folding her arms across her chest. In her head, she could feel around the space of Armin's cramped mind, tasting his discomfort. Per usual, he was hiding something from her, shielding his thoughts and his feelings from her prying eyes. The feeling was like having a door slammed in her face. If she stilled her thoughts enough she could hear the hum of their connection, his touch lingering in her head as he tried to draw back from her, but found it utterly impossible. Their minds were connected by steel cables and copper coil. There was no extricating her from his power.

"Did you need something?" Reiner asked.

_Yeah_, she thought, _I could use a good fight_.

Armin looked at her sharply, and she flexed her toes, and then her fingers, crossing her ankles out of habit. "Are you coming to this thing tomorrow?" she asked, stretching her swollen toes, feeling them ache as the pushed against the hard wood, supporting her weight precariously.

"Oh." Reiner and Bertholdt glanced at each other. "Uh, maybe? Depends on our orders, I guess."

"Eren just got orders for a different mission," Armin said, pushing a rook across the board. "I don't know if I'm up for anything. Erwin doesn't like to inform me about things until the last minute."

It was interesting how many teammates they had lost in such a short period of time. Mikasa didn't miss Annie at all, but she did have a soft fondness for Ymir. The girl had been funny, callous and a little unkind. But a strangely comforting presence, unlike Annie, who was mostly an unnerving blip in Mikasa's line of vision. And of course, there was Marco. She didn't like to think about Marco. He had been her very good friend, and now he was gone. It was cruel of the world to take such a sweet friend from her.

"Okay," Mikasa said, turning from them. Her toes were given her trouble, pain spiraling up to her knees. She didn't buckle, though she did frown, untangling her legs and pushing herself toward the exit. She nearly ran right into Historia, who'd barreled into the room, her dull eyes flashing and her fluffy blonde hair askew.

"Armin!" she cried, clutching a large manila envelope. Armin jumped to his feet, his own eyes widening. Mikasa felt a trickle of his anxiety seep into her mouth, sour like sweat and bitter like tears. Again, he closed his emotions off to her, ripping a curtain closed and leaving her dizzy from the residual taste. As he wandered to Historia's side, she tore open the envelope, her brow furrowing and her cheeks puffed out.

She pulled out a slip of paper, and Mikasa stood and watched as her eyes darted across it. Her brow wrinkled in confusion. "What does that mean?" she whispered, pointing to something on the page.

"Let me see." Armin peered over her shoulder, adjusting his glasses as he squinted at the page. "It's just there to show the data. It should say the actual results somewhere near the bottom."

"Here!" Historia gasped, her eyes lighting up suddenly as she pointed once more. He nodded, reading from above her head, his eyes widening momentarily. Her body seemed to go rigid, and she blinked for a moment.

"Ah," Armin said, glancing down at Historia. She avoided his gaze.

"Yeah…" She stared ahead of her for a moment, and then looked back down at the paper. "So… what now?"

"I don't know." Armin ran his fingers through his hair, glancing around the room. "We should tell Erwin."

"Oh." She looked tired as she nodded. "Yes."

"What is that?" Mikasa asked. Historia glanced up at her, and so did Armin. Suddenly her friend had a pained, desperate look on his face, and his gaze darted to Historia. She seemed to sense his eyes on her, and when she saw his face, she frowned. He had a pleading look about him, and she sighed.

"Okay," she said quietly. "Yeah. Tell her."

"Thank you," he gasped, lurching forward and grabbing Mikasa by the wrist. Mikasa was stunned as he dragged her down the hall, Historia trailing behind them slowly. She glanced back at Reiner and Bertholdt, who were looking at each other confusedly. Eren was likely with Hange, or Erwin, being prepped for whatever his mission was. She figured it had something to do with Petra.

They reached Armin's room, and he flung open his door, marching in and all but collapsing onto his bed. Historia shut the door behind them, pressing her back to it as she watched Armin dully. Mikasa found herself a little concerned, seeing him rub his head and listening to his ragged breath. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"Oh, yeah," he said, sitting up. His glasses slipped down his nose as he smiled dimly. "No worries."

"Right." She eyed him warily. "Okay. What's going on?"

Armin's eyes moved from her face to Historia's filling with a little bit of awe. "Oh, yeah!" he gasped, half pushing himself off the bed. "Historia, do you want to…?"

"It makes more sense if you tell her," Historia said quietly. "We don't know each other very well."

Mikasa looked at the tiny girl, and she felt a sting of remorse. They didn't know each other well. That was the sad truth. Mikasa felt as though all the team members who were missing now were people that she barely knew. Even Marco, as loved as he was, was a little foreign to her. She was sad for this, for these lost friends who were barely even friend. Except Annie. Kinda.

"Right," Armin said, "right… wow, where do I even begin…?"

"You could start with the obvious?" Historia tilted her head, her pale hair curling around her eyes. Mikasa was watching her face, specifically, because there was so much emptiness in her eyes that it was difficult to see any semblance of life. It was there, though. _She's teasing him_, Mikasa realized, blinking between the two tiny blondes.

"Ha ha," he said, grimacing. "Yeah, okay. Well, Mikasa, see… Historia is… um…" He pushed himself to his feet, wobbling a little and blinking up at the ceiling. Mikasa noticed how unkempt his room was. It was strange. He was usually so much more organized than this. "She's…" Armin seemed to be choking on his words, looking a little panic-stricken. His eyes grew wide, as though something had hit him and he was buckling under the weight. "She…"

"I'm his sister," Historia said, her voice soft but terse.

Mikasa thought she'd heard her wrong initially, but when she looked into Armin's face she saw the way his eyes softened, and she could sense all the guilt welling up inside of him, his emotions suddenly bare for her to see. She was jostled by the strength of them, the force that swept over her of languid tastes, fear and sadness, and strange pangs of joy and ripples of confusion and uncertainty. She was trapped in a mountain range of feelings that were not her own. Was this how Armin felt all the time?

"What?" she struggled out weakly.

"It's true." Armin looked up at her, his fingers knotting in his hair as he massaged his scalp. "It's… it's weird, I know, but it's true. We just got the DNA test back."

"It's a match," Historia said, waving the manila envelope.

She stood, soaking in their words, trying to process everything amongst the battering waves of emotions that Armin was dealing her. She understood now why he kept them behind a closed door, wrangled with them desperately so she could not feel his helplessness and horror and hope. It was frightening and… it honestly kind of hurt.

"Um… okay…?" Mikasa stood between them, suddenly conscious of the similarities in their tiny faces, the curve of their cheeks, the shape of their eyes, their coloring. Historia's cheeks were constantly rosy, her cheekbones laced with a perpetual blush. Armin sometimes had that quality, though not always. They held themselves similarly, their shoulders half between straight back and a slump. Historia's voice wasn't as strong as Armin's, but it was still sweet to listen to in its own way.

She could see it, yes.

"We need to tell Erwin, Armin," Historia reminded quietly.

"Yeah, I know." Armin searched Mikasa's face, likely trying to figure out what she thought of this entire thing without actually reading her mind. "This is what I've been hiding from you. We all decided it'd be for the best if we kept it quiet until we knew if it was actually true."

"I understand," she said, her voice steady but empty. She wasn't so shocked, not really, but she was confused. "Are you… twins?"

"I'm older," Historia sighed. "By… ten months…?"

"Something like that," he said, smiling thinly. "Yeah. Our mother must've had a hectic year."

"Who would even want to have two babies so close to one another?" Mikasa found herself saying.

"That's what I was wondering!" Armin grimaced, and she watched his shoulders hunch a little in discomfort. "It sounds torturous. I don't envy you guys."

"I can't have kids," Historia said.

Both Mikasa and Armin whirled to face her. She was idly playing with a ribbon on the wall, braiding the ribbons together with nimble fingers. She seemed to not care for what she had just said, as though she had merely been informing them of something simple, like a birthmark or her birthstone.

"Uh..." Armin looked stunned, but he nodded slowly. "Well, neither can I, but… can I ask why?"

She shrugged, glancing at them. "I never got my period," she said. "I don't mind, though. I don't want kids anyway."

"You're not missing much," Mikasa said. "It sucks."

Historia actually smiled, albeit marginally, and she abandoned her ribbons to face them, pressing her back to the wall. "I can't imagine how Levi must've reacted," she said quietly.

Mikasa almost laughed, and Armin snorted, hiding his face from them both. "Um," she said, tucking her hair behind her ear, "well, he yelled at me for going to bed without dressing a wound, so it went about as well as you'd expect."

"Seriously?" Armin squeaked, hiding a grin behind his hands.

"Levi is actually a loser," she said, rocking back on her heels to give her aching toes a rest. "Case point."

"That's actually kind of sweet," Historia murmured. "I… guess."

"Historia, do you think there's a reason you never got your period?" Armin asked suddenly. She glanced at him, and Mikasa could tell she was confused by his question.

"I don't know," she said, "I just assumed… it was normal? Like, not everyone gets one?" She looked suddenly very uncertain as her eyes darted between them. "Is that not how it works?"

"No, Historia," Mikasa said slowly. "It's… not really something that I know to happen often."

Armin dropped himself onto his bed again, scooping up his phone. "It's not common, I know that much," he said. He glanced up, and smiled at Historia gently. "Don't worry, it's probably nothing. I just want to make sure."

"I didn't know it was weird," she said vacantly, her dusty blue eyes growing wider and wider. "Ymir didn't tell me."

Mikasa wondered what it'd be like to have Ymir as a sex-ed teacher instead of Levi. Probably infinitely more fun. "You're sixteen, right?" she said. "You could probably still get it."

"I don't think so…" Historia hugged her arms close to her chest, her eyes cast toward the ground.

"It's called amenorrhoea," Armin said from his bed, scrolling through his phone. "Um, this might be a little invasive, but did you ever get secondary sex characteristics?"

"Like… boobs?" Historia smiled wanly, and she shook her head. "Not really."

"You probably have primary amenorrhoea, then," he said, pulling up his knees and propping his phone up against them. "You might want to see an actual doctor about it, though. Doctor Google is not the most trustworthy source."

"I think I'll be fine," she said slowly, her arms dropping back to her sides. "Like I said, I don't want babies, so…"

_Do you think she should go to a doctor?_ Armin thought to Mikasa, his voice a warm presence in her head. His feelings were no longer attacking her, but she felt the vicious backlash of them, the aftertaste of conflicting emotions in her mouth.

_I think _you_ should go to a doctor_, she thought back, lacing her thoughts with her bitter judgment and frustration. He winced outwardly, dropping his legs.

"It's not really a big deal," Armin said cautiously, "but before now I really thought that you were the only experiment free of imperfections."

"What?" Historia asked, looking startled. "I'm definitely not perfect."

"That's not what I meant," Armin sighed. "I mean, your power doesn't have any side effects, like mine or Eren's does. I thought the institute had finally gotten what they wanted in you. I'm just wondering if this is a result of your power."

"Is it not a natural thing?" she asked slowly.

"I don't know, Historia," he said, staring at her with soft eyes and a knitted brow.

"Well," she said, "anyway, I wouldn't be the only one even if it was true, because Levi and Erwin don't have anything wrong with them."

"They're adults. I was counting them separate from us, since we were still maturing at the time of the experimentation." Armin pressed his knuckles to his lips, his eyes roving to the roses left on his walls. They were actually quite pretty, Mikasa noticed, though paint cans rested beside the desk, ready to be cracked open. He bolted up straight, his eyes flashing wide. "Oh!"

"Oh?" Historia quirked a brow as Armin leapt to his feet.

"_Oh_," Armin gasped, pushing his glasses up his nose, "I just realized something!"

"Okay…?"

He shook his head, snatching Historia's hand. "We have to go talk to Erwin," he said urgently, passing Mikasa and pausing. He turned to her, his eyes wild, and he rose on his toes for a moment until he was close enough that she could smell his hair, strands of flax perfumed with something soft and sweet and old, a mix between the smell of an ice cream shop and an old library. And then, astonishingly, she felt his lips brush her cheek.

Armin's touches never hurt her, but this was something different entirely. The energy charged into the quick placement of his lips on her cheekbone made her jump in shock, tears springing into her eyes as they were blinded by a series of closely knit memories, strings of words imbedding into her brain, fast paced explanations trampling her senses, and she stood, mouth dry, eyes watering, body shaking, and she realized Armin was gone, and she had no idea how long she'd been standing there, but her toes were on fire and she suddenly knew exactly why Armin had left, and how he and Historia were siblings, because he had given her that information in the quickest, most efficient way he thought possible.

In the end of this long line of things, Historia's voice narrating the adventure at the institute with Ymir, who Erwin had goaded into running away because Eren's anger would have proved fatal for her, Erwin swabbing insides of Historia and Armin's mouths, the quiet talks held between the two siblings as they questioned their relation, the guilt Armin had felt hiding this from Eren and Mikasa, the thread of a thought stolen from Eren of a woman named Rose who had been driven insane at the institute, and finally this conclusion, the roses on the walls, the strangled words of a nursery rhyme that Armin had sung time and time again, in the end it was accompanied by a whisper, Armin quiet voice in her head. _I'm sorry_.

Mikasa stumbled back as she sunk into reality, her fingers flying to her cheek, expecting them to run over raised skin, like a burn or a scar, but no. Her cheek was just as smooth as it had been before, and her fingers glided over soft skin.

Well _that _was new.

She decided to grab something to eat and go to sleep after that. She was exhausted, and she had a ballet to perform tomorrow, and she was more likely to fall flat on her face than actually do what she was supposed to do. She'd forgotten all about Levi until the next morning when she trudged into the kitchen, bleary eyed from sleep, and she reached over Levi's head at the kitchen table and fished a handful of cocoa puffs out of the box.

He didn't reprimand her.

By this time, nearly everyone was in the kitchen, either chattering lightly or grabbing their own breakfasts, or sitting and eating. Historia and Armin were sitting with Erwin, hunched over a tablet and writing things down between orange slices and coffee sips. Armin wasn't eating anything. Eren was chatting excitedly with Hange about something, his hands moving in time with his words. Reiner and Bertholdt were taking turns tossing cocoa puffs into Levi's bowl, which he did not seem to notice.

Mikasa tipped her hand over Levi's head and opened it. The cereal dropped over him, causing him to jolt, his eyes flashing up to hers furiously. They were cloudy eyes, bruised and exhausted and numbed. They were puffy. Bloodshot.

"What the—?" Levi started, his voice dangerously low and rasping as he spoke.

"Welcome back to the real world," Mikasa said coolly. She whirled away from him, marching back to her room, feeling a terrible sinking feeling in her chest, like someone had driven their fist into her gut and she couldn't breathe. Tears were becoming familiar to her, and she blinked them back, furious at herself for getting so emotional about something so stupid. It wasn't her responsibility. He wasn't her responsibility. He could do whatever he wanted, it didn't matter.

"Fuck," she heard him swear, his chair screeching. She heard his urgent footfalls behind her, and as she reached her room, she lingered in the doorway. She turned to face him, resting her shoulder against the doorframe. She wanted to hear his excuse.

But he said nothing. He merely stared at her, his mouth parting, his puffy eyes darting. Typical.

"Well?" She set her gaze on him, hoping he felt her fury. "What are you on?"

He breathed in very sharply, his shoulders going rigid. "Mikasa—" he started, grimacing.

"Spare me," she said, her voice slicing through her teeth. "You're too lucid for opiates. Is it weed? Are you drunk?"

"I'm… not…" He sighed, rubbing his face tiredly. "Fuck, Mikasa. I'm hungover."

"How unfortunate for you," she said flatly. She attempted to slam the door shut, but his boot caught between the wood and the doorframe, resulting in a few seconds of dumb staring.

"What the fuck do you want me to say?" he asked, his brow wrinkling. "Do you want me to apologize for drinking?"

"Do you want to get your foot out of my doorway before I crush it?" she retorted.

"Getting drunk once isn't going to turn me into an addict," he snapped.

"You're already an addict." She stared at him, watching his impassive face as she took as many shots at him as she possibly could. "Look, I don't care. Just go away."

"It was just one fucking time," he hissed.

"I don't care."

"Mikasa—"

"I don't _care_!" She kicked his foot out and slammed the door shut, pressing her back up against it with a good amount of strength in order to keep him from barging in. This felt familiar. They'd had this fight before.

It might not have been such a big deal if it wasn't Levi, if it was Eren or Jean or someone who could afford to get drunk, but it wasn't. It was Levi, who had been doing so _well_, and he should know better, and she was so angry with him and with herself for reacting like this. Of course he knew what he was doing, he was an adult, he was free to make his own choices, whatever. But Mikasa had been down this road before, and she remembered the horror of finding Levi's lifeless body, and remembered how tearful she'd been as she'd called the police, remembered sticking her fingers down his throat and praying it wasn't too late for him to throw it all up.

She sunk to her knees, wiping away her tears with the heels of her hands, and she wondered when she had gotten to be so weak. She felt Armin's presence in her head, and she tasted his silk worry as it trickled through her mind, milk curdling as it collided with her vinegar thoughts. _I'm fine_, she told him. _It's fine_.

_You're upset_, he murmured, his presence struggling closer. _Eren's angry. He doesn't know who to be angry at, but he's angry_.

_Is that a surprise?_ Mikasa sniffled, pulling her oversized tee shirt over her knees and pressing her face into them. _Let him be angry. Maybe Levi will actually care_.

_Doubt it_, Armin said. _He doesn't give a fuck about what Eren thinks of him. But with you, right now, I think he's actually really scared and guilty. What did he do, Mikasa?_

Mikasa raised her head, blinking back her tears and puzzling over that. Levi was scared? And guilty? Because…? Because he'd gotten drunk, or because Mikasa was angry? God. What a motherfucker.

She leapt to her feet, scrubbing at her eyes furiously. _Are you guys coming tonight?_ she asked, stripping her pajamas off and marching up to her mirror. She didn't look like a ballerina, petite and willowy, she looked like she was built to beat the shit out of bad guys. Mina had told her it didn't matter, because the costume would make it look like she had curves, but Mikasa sort of doubted it.

_Eren's going somewhere_, Armin said. _On mission. Historia and I don't have tickets, though. I asked, there's only one. I assumed it was going to Levi or Hange_.

She didn't care who went. It's not like it mattered all that much. _Okay_, she told him. She grabbed her phone, digging through her drawers and finding a pale pink dress, plain and flowy and soft. She tossed it onto her bed, scrolling through her contacts until she got to Mina Carolina.

"_Hello_?" the girl chirped. "_Mikasa_?"

"Hey," she said, yanking on a pair of leggings. The dress was something she'd only worn once, a flimsy little thing that had attracted too much unwanted attention at a party she'd gone to with Jean and Marco. "Can we go through some of the moves I keep missing one more time?"

"_Don't you have school_?" She sounded so surprised.

"Does it matter?" Mikasa struggled into the dress, feeling it sink against her skin. It actually was kinda nice. "Look, we have a half day anyway. No one'll care if I miss today. All we're doing is learning about accused witches that were hanged three hundred years ago, or whatever."

"_Um… okay_…" Mina sounded uncertain as Mikasa tossed her pointe shoes into a bag, and then her costume, and then random things she might need in case she didn't come home, like an extra pair of clothes, sneakers, fifty bucks…

She traded the fifty in for a twenty when she realized there was an actual chance that she might spend it on a train ticket to nowhere in particular. A twenty wouldn't get her far enough, and she could still buy food with it. Finally she stuffed her sword into the bag, and her Nio mask, and decided that was enough.

"I'll take the subway to you," Mikasa said. "I'm not intruding on anything, am I?"

"_Oh, no, no_," Mina gasped hurriedly. "_No, of course not. What gave you that idea_?"

"You sound…" Mikasa didn't really know. "Uh… never mind. I'll be there in half an hour."

"_Okay_…"

Mikasa tossed her phone into her bag tugging on a pair of sturdy boots, and glancing at herself in the mirror. Her dull eyes stared back, and she grimaced. Whatever. She didn't even know how to do makeup. It made no difference. So she yanked her hair up in a stubby little bun, sloppy black strands falling against her cheeks, and she scooped up the makeup left over from the Beta Squad mission, dumping it in her duffle bag. She snatched a beaten up jean jacket from her floor, shrugging it on, and then finally wound her red scarf around her neck, burying her face in it. Her eyes looked as puffy and bloodshot as Levi's. She hoped no one noticed.

She hoped he understood why she was so angry. She avoided them all as she exited her room, marching with her head high through the apartment. Eren called to her. "Mikasa?" Then he ran for her, cutting her off at the door. She didn't know where Levi was. "Aw, sweet fuckin' Jesus, Mikasa, where are you goin'?"

"Out."

"We have school!" He scowled, grabbing her by the wrist. "Quit it. You ain't goin' anywhere."

"Yeah, I am." She tore her arm away from him, staring into his bright green eyes and forcing him to understand how furious she was. His face seemed to melt in sympathy. "I know you're leaving for a mission. Good luck, okay? I'd go with you if I didn't have this stupid ballet."

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I know. I don't need you to protect me, though."

"And I don't need you to tell me what to do," she sighed, her grip tightening on her duffle bag.

They stared at each other, his dark face twisting in confusion, and she almost smiled. _We need to grow up_, she told him, _I think_.

_Mikasa, we were never kids in the first place_, he whispered into her head. She felt Armin's mind stir, a third party to this intimate telepathic conversation, but not unwelcome. She had to wonder.

She kissed Eren on the cheek, feeling the charge that Armin had inflicted on her, and wondering what information to give him. So she showed Eren the image rattling in her head of Levi propped up against a stained tub, the image of her shaky hands as she tried to hold him upright, the image of the phone in her trembling fingers. She let him hear her screaming, the meaty sound of her tiny knuckles cracking across the man's face, the feeling of them being torn open against his teeth, blood running hot down her fingers.

"I'll see you later, Eren," she whispered, brushing past him. He stood, frozen in horror of what she had just shown him, and she felt Armin's horror as well, the saltine staleness of it. If Levi had seen her leave, he let her go. She was thankful for that. She didn't think she'd be able to contain her rage, and they'd probably end up beating each other bloody.

She wasn't one to run away from her problems. Usually she just confronted them. But this was different. Levi was a different kind of problem. She could punch and kick and scratch at him all she wanted. Her blows and her words meant nothing. All she could do was let him wallow in his own pathetic guilt, and let that lead him to her. She couldn't be the one waiting on him anymore. He needed to pick himself up this time.

And anyways, she had some dancing to do.

"Thanks for meeting me," Mikasa said quietly, kicking a rock into the street. It was beginning to drizzle, and Mina was sporting a cute ladybug umbrella, twirling it between her brightly gloved fingers. Mina was wearing a long white jacket, buttoned up to her neck, and dark knee highs with what appeared to be designer ankle boots. Mikasa always saw her wearing either baggy sweats or tights and a leotard, so this was totally strange.

"Not a problem." Mina smiled, but Mikasa could tell she'd interrupted something. It was just the way her eyes dimmed, the hollowness of her smile. "As much as I want to go through the entire show with you again… I've got a weird feeling you didn't call me because of that."

"You're pretty perceptive."

"No," Mina sighed, "I'm just not stupid. You've got this ballet down, Mikasa. I know you do. Hell, you're better than me." Mikasa snorted at that, and Mina shook her head. "No, really! I've never seen anyone take to ballet so quickly. You're a real prodigy!"

"I spent the better part of last night in the bathroom crying," Mikasa informed Mina, staring ahead into the throng of pedestrians waiting for a light to change. "I've never done anything this hard in my entire life."

"Dancing is supposed to be hard," Mina said, tilting her head to peer up at Mikasa. Her pigtails shifted against her shoulders, black strands curling across white fabric. "I've been doing it since I could stand, and I'm at the level you're at now."

"You're exaggerating."

"I'm not!" Mina groaned, twirling her ladybug umbrella and shaking her head. "Believe me, I'd tell you if you were bad at it! You're just… unbelievable. I don't know."

"I catch onto most things quickly," she said dully, "as long as it's physical enough. I can't learn instruments very easily, or write sonnets. I can't learn languages in a short period of time. I can't solve equations fast, or understand scientific theories. My brain is normal. My body isn't."

"You're amazing," Mina assured. "I'd give anything to be like you."

"It's honestly not that great." Mikasa tapped her boot against the ground, listening to the traffic light click away like crickets chirping. "For all I know I could have something wrong with me."

"Does that happen a lot?" Mina asked carefully. "Side effects?"

"The majority lies in those with side effects, yeah," she said. "It's not fun, Mina. You shouldn't get involved." She added that as an afterthought, because it was true. Mina was such a sweet, normal girl. Being around her reminded Mikasa of how it used to be with Marco and Jean. She had liked that life. She missed it. _Maybe once we sort out this institute stuff_, she thought_, I can try and be normal_. Hero life didn't suit her. She wanted adventure, yes, but she wanted it to be fulfilling. She wanted her life to be her own.

But she knew it never would be. She had no life of her own. She could only give it away to those who had given to her, and she would spend her years giving back, giving and giving until she was spent. To Armin. To Eren. To Levi. To her family.

"You look like you've been crying," Mina observed softly. "It's not just your feet, is it? There's something really bothering you."

"It's my…" Her word struggled against the autumn wind, carrying against the Manhattan sounds and breaking away. She couldn't say it. "Um, Levi. He was hungover this morning. I wanted to break his face."

"Levi's…?" Mina bit her lip, and Mikasa wondered how much this girl knew about her. "Isn't he your dad?"

"Um… something like that…" Mikasa was too tired to explain, so she let Levi be her father. Just this once. "He has a history of substance abuse. Like, really bad."

"Ah." Mina nodded sympathetically, her eyes softening with every click of her heels against the pavement. "I feel you there."

"I yelled at him." She nuzzled her scarf, breathing in the scent of home, because Eren's scent no longer lingered in the thick red fibers. "I hope he gets a clue."

"I hope so too."

Mina was a good person to talk to. She listened, and nodded, and added her own points, her own advice, and then compared situations. Mina's father was an alcoholic, and a gambler, constantly throwing money away, constantly in a bad mood, constantly getting mixed up in black market bullshit. Mina understood exactly what Mikasa was feeling.

They ended up at Mina's apartment, which was just as nice as Hange's, and they went over the ballet a few more times. Mina was so sure Mikasa was ready for this, and it was terrifying. Because what if she wasn't?

How could something like this terrify her?

For some reason Mina wanted Mikasa to steer clear of her room. "It's a huge mess," the girl gasped, her eyes darting away from Mikasa's face. "I… I wasn't expecting company!"

Mina got her prepared in the bathroom, doing her hair and makeup, making her feel pretty in a different kind of way than when she'd gone to the gala. Tonight felt like putting on a mask. Suiting, since it was Halloween. She wished she could just quit this already. It was making her anxious, and she had no real plan for when this Kenny Ackerman fucker confronted her. She was too busy preparing herself for the act of fooling him into thinking she was Mina Carolina.

If they were related, would it shock him? Would he stop attacking her to gape?

It didn't matter.

"Ah, you look stunning," said the dance company owner, smiling sweetly at Mikasa. She was an older woman, with a hard mouth and hard eyes, and she made Mikasa feel inadequate. Mina had told her not to listen to this woman. She was tough on the self-esteem. "Mm… that bodice seems a bit snug, though, don't you think?"

She pinched Mikasa's waist, and Mikasa took a large step back. "I'm not here to look pretty, miss," she said steadily. "Please don't touch me again."

One of the male dancers whistled lowly as she passed, and for a moment she took it as a cat call, but she realized quickly it was admiration for what she'd said to the company owner. She paused to look at him. "You've got more guts than any of us, that's for sure," the man said. He was probably in his early twenties. Mikasa realized she didn't actually know how old Mina was. "You ready for this?"

"I guess."

He grimaced, scratching his cheek. He had some outrageous sideburns, and she found him amusing to look at. "Look, I'm not sure what happened that you're here, pretending to be Mina," he said, "but you really need to be ready. A lot can happen on stage."

"I've dealt with worse," Mikasa said, flattening out her fluffy skirt… her tutu…? Yeah. Her toes were aching terribly inside her pointe shoes, and she was wearing a corset, which didn't help her discomfort.

"Hey," the man said, "you know everything right?"

"Yes," she said. "Though I'm not very happy with how intimate this ballet is."

His name was Tomas, she knew, and they would be sharing a lot of scenes together. She wasn't very comfortable with, well, _any of it_, because the ballet was all about a love triangle and she didn't like that she needed to be hanging off a man for a good portion of her dancing time. But, whatever. She'd deal. Hopefully no one would show up to see her like this.

Tomas laughed at her, making her flush in embarrassment. "It's not that bad, honestly," he said gently. "You know everything you have to do, so just go through the motions. Oh, and try to smile. That's super important."

"Thanks," she said. "I guess…"

He studied her face for a moment, looking curious. "You know," he said, "none of us know exactly what you're doing here. Aside from, like, protecting Mina or whatever."

"That's all you need to know," she said, brushing past him.

The initial shock of being on stage wasn't the frightening part. The frightening part was remembering her footing while keeping her expression right, moving her body fluidly between set piece and pointing her toes, bending her feet, plié and whirl and smile and set her arms, twisting her face away at the right moments, her face flushing in embarrassment. Hands on her waist, on her arms, on her neck, on her face, she was led and then let go, left to her own movements and steps, pointed toes, pointed wrists.

The music was very whimsy at first, and the more she danced the easier it was to forget about the dull throbbing of her feet, forget about Levi and forget about this entire situation. She forgot every measure of her pain and fear as she glided along with the music, her feet rising and falling in a leaping rhythm across the floor. She played the part of the coy girl in love more easily than she'd thought. She smiled, and feigned laughter, spring to and away from a crowd of dancers, into someone's arms and then allowing herself to be lifted. She felt a little sorry for Tomas, who had to lift her above his head, and when they were backstage after the first song she leaned against another dancer, gladly guzzling down the water bottle she'd offered, and glancing at him apologetically.

"Sorry," she mumbled, pressing her fingers to her sweaty collarbone. "I'm a lot heavier than I look."

"Solid muscle, I 'spect," Tomas laughed. "No worries. You were actually really good! And you smiled!" He grinned broadly, and she flushed. "You should smile more. Real ones."

Mikasa opened her mouth to reply, but someone called out to her, and suddenly she was back on stage, moving about and bowing and rushing and pointing her toes and swinging herself along with the twiddling of a violin. There was a gap where a few others got solo dances after that, so she rested her toes for a few minutes and scouted the audience for the first time all night. Through the glare of the stage lights, her vision managed to adjust, and she saw a hundred strangers staring at her, faces impassive masks in blackened theater. She felt butterflies stir in her stomach from anxiety.

Kenny Ackerman was supposed to be sitting close to the front, on her left. She knew his seat, because he was her true mission, not this frivolous dancing, and she saw him in the stream of yellow and white that stole her eyes. He was a skinny man with sulky eyes and a lined, gaunt face. He was wearing a hat, and that further shadowed his grayish features, making him seem more like a ghost than any wilis in this eerie ballet.

She dared herself to look around more, her eyes darting across the yellow tinted, shadow blanketed crowd, her eyes following heads and eyes and trying to put some recognition in those vacant faces. It was difficult to do, and it strained her vision just to squint through the rays of spotlights, but after a minute of searching, her heart thudding, her eyes met the hollow bruises that had settled into Levi's pallid face. His eyes, she realized, sickened, must have been on her the entire time. Great.

Suddenly she was dancing again, her feet moving at a slower pace, the song thrumming along with every dip of her leg, every plié, every turn, and oh, did she turn. Her feet were hardly on the ground, and her body moved effortlessly, and she was blinking through the stage lights, trying to find Levi's face with every twirling motion of her body, spotting her turns only just enough to not tip over, and she felt as though she was going to puke, or that her neck would snap from whiplash, and she moved and moved without thought, her heart hurting her as it smashed against her ribs, her pointe shoes pushing off and sliding in constant motion with the flow of her body.

Her dance ended with a bended knee, a curtsy or a bow or something of that sort, and she was breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling so fast that she knew anyone could see the breadth of her ribs against the flimsy strip of cloth that was her costume's upper bodice. Tears stung her eyes, or maybe it was sweat, and she gritted her teeth. Lights were burning her skin, and her eyes, and she dared not look at Levi again, so instead she focused on Kenny Ackerman, who watched her with a dead gaze, his eyes narrowed and she wondered if he knew yet that she was not Mina Carolina. The audience clapped for her.

The sequence of events in this ballet were interesting enough. The love triangle fell to pieces. Giselle was in love with a prince, Mikasa thought, or some kind of royalty, and it turns out the prince is engaged, and Giselle… well, if Mikasa were truly Giselle, she'd never let something so stupid as this hurt her so badly. She tried to imagine it was Eren, imagine what it'd be like to lose him to something so utterly ridiculous as marriage. She would not bow to such a silly adversary, nor would she allow herself to be driven insane by it. But it was strangely cathartic to let herself go, her character suddenly a mess of uneven steps and swaying limbs.

Mikasa dug her fingers into her hair, feeling the eyes of the audience solely on her, and she tore at the pins that held the dark tresses, her own and the extensions, into place. Billowing black curls rolled into her eyes as her body moved erratically, madness in her steps, driven between a crowd of players and held back and pushed away and she squirmed under grips and shoved and kicked and whirled, her long black hair swinging around and around and around, flying as she was caught by Tomas, and then, with a breath, she allowed herself to fall back.

She wasn't sure of the details, but she was thankful to lie down. Giselle's death was something swift, as was her madness. The audience clapped for her. Mikasa opened her eyes as the curtain fell. Kenny Ackerman was rising from his seat.

She bolted upright, flattening out her skirt, and pushing her hair back as Tomas clapped her on the back, and an older ballerina who played Giselle's mother told her she'd performed so beautifully, her madness had been so believable, and Mikasa merely choked back tears, wondering if the performance hadn't been half real.

"You okay?" Tomas asked, offering a hand.

She nodded mutely, brushing his hand away and rising back onto his feet. The audience was still clapping, and she realized that she had to keep Kenny Ackerman in sight, and she whirled to face Tomas, pulling her long curls behind her ears. "How many ways can you get backstage?" she asked him as they were hurried off the stage by the stage crew.

"Uh," Tomas said, wiping the sweat from his brow with his wrist, "three? I think?"

"Shit." Mikasa tugged the excess bobby pins from her extensions, grimacing at the feeling of hair against her sweaty back. "Where?"

"Does it matter?" he asked weakly. "You have to go get changed."

"What?" She blinked as one of the girls tugged her arm, and she was suddenly in the dressing room, changing thoughtlessly into a pure white costume with a long, fluffy white tutu, and she suddenly envied the boys who got to wear tights and little else. She fought against one of the older women who tried to pull her hair back and pin it upright, and she jumped to her feet.

"I need to go to the bathroom," she blurted.

"We don't have the time!" gasped the woman. Mikasa glowered at her through the satiny black curls that framed her face, and she shoved past her when the woman seemed properly intimidated. The costume was itchy, but it was more comfortable than the blue dress with the corset she had been wearing.

She dodged the company founder, ducking out into a hall that connected with the theater. She blew her bangs out of her eyes, her pointe shoes moving softly against the tile, and she listened to the eerie quiet, blinking into the dimly lit hallway. She thought there was a door this way, and she was almost certain she was right. He couldn't be hiding could he? This was a mess.

When she passed by the door leading into the theater, she noticed there was a window. She squinted into the dim light, and she saw the shadowy lines of an older man's face, dark eyes following her movements. She watched the doorknob twist.

She went running before he could slip through the door, her slippers noiseless against the floor even with the wooden tips of them. She wanted to get as far away from the stage and the theater as possible, and she glided down a flight of steps, throwing herself over a railing and twisting her body to get a look at where Kenny Ackerman was above her. She'd dropped a good three floors. The stairwell was quiet all except for her breathing, which sounded deafening to her ears.

She heard a soft whoosh of air rushing as a body descended behind her, and she whirled around, leg flying out in a swift uppercut. He caught her by the ankle and swung her into the railing. Her spine collided with the metal pole, and she sucked in a gulp of air as the metal screeched in protest, bending under her weight. Her hair fell into her eyes, and she cursed the extensions as his fingers knotted into her curls and yanked her head back, tipping her body precariously over the open stair.

His breath was hot against her face, the scent of stale tobacco and musk overwhelming her senses. Her scalp was throbbing from the sensation of all her hair threatening to rip out of her skull. Kenny Ackerman had beady eyes, pale blue and cold as they searched her face. His expression was impassive.

"You," he said, a burst of hot, stinging breath hitting her eyes, "aren't Mina."

Mikasa glanced over at the stairs beneath her, and she exhaled sharply. She glanced back at his aged face, and flexed her foot. "No shit, fuckface," she said dully, kicking him hard in the chest and flinging herself backwards.

He was forced to let her go, but he dove right after her as she tucked her body in, and he caught her by the folds of her skirt, forcing her to land on her back against the stairs, pain spiking throughout her entire body as her head snapped back against the concrete, half tearing a hole in the step, and they rolled downwards, his knee digging into her stomach and her fist flying into his cheek. He caught her wrist, and she listened to their struggling as she snarled and kicked and flipped, her bones rattling as they both thumped down and down and down the steps, too quick for one another to properly land any real blows.

He pinned her at the landing.

The shock of being suddenly held down, pressure on every point of her body, was utterly terrifying. For a moment she was blinded, pain straining her skull and her ears ringing with a shrill wail of a warning signal. She blinked rapidly, shallow breaths escaping her parted lips as she wriggled and squirmed beneath the skinny man, who was much, much heavier than he looked, and she realized he was pressing an actual weight to her chest, which was making it hard to breath. It was cold against her bare skin, and he held it there with one hand wound around her throat.

"Never got a fighter like that before," he whispered. She almost rolled her eyes, but settled on glaring at him. Oh, she'd give him a fight. "Bent a railing. Smashed some concrete." His fingers dung into the tender flesh behind her ears, and she choked, her eyes widening. "You wouldn't happen to be one of those, mm… _special_ kids, would you?"

She attempted to get a hold of his arm to crush it in her fist, but he was too quick, grabbing the rectangular weight from her chest and smashing it into her forearm. She had not anticipated such quick, crippling violence, and suddenly her entire arm was on fire, and she was screaming in spite of herself, her head snapping back against tile and cracking it with the force of her skull, agony ripping through her slowly and then with the vivacity of a wave colliding with palisades. She was knocked breathless, her vision bleary, and she was now painfully aware of how dire her situation was. He wasn't fucking around. He'd kill her if he needed to.

"Now, now," he whispered, his face too close to hers, far to close. "I asked you a question." He caught her chin, and she blinked back her tears, staring into his hollow blue eyes. "Well. Aren't you precious? You've never lost a fight in your life. It's almost cute, if it wasn't so gross." Her arm was throbbing so terribly that tears were springing back into her eyes. There was blood. _I can't heal_, she thought numbly, _I'm not like Eren_.

"Why…" Mikasa rasped, her throat dry and her voice trembling. "Why are you… after Mina?"

"Mina is insignificant," the man said dully. He had a chilly monotone voice, and he smelled terrible, like he'd been rotting inside for days and didn't try to mask it. "You're a far more valuable prize. Should I break your legs too, or will you come with me without a fuss?"

_He must want me to go back to the institute_, she thought. "You think," she spat, "a _weight_ will break my legs? Have you ever tried ballet, you motherfuck—?"

He backhanded her hard, and then grimaced. "Thick skull," he muttered, likely to himself.

"Ha ha," she spat blood, glancing at her arm. It looked worse than it was. Bits of bone were exposed, but it was okay. She wasn't Eren, but she still healed faster than normal people. "Who carries a… a fucking _weight_ around…?"

"Just a precaution," the man said. "In case I end up meeting someone like you."

"Get off me," she said.

"I'm going to break your legs," he told her coldly, "and then, maybe, your pretty little face."

She tried to punch him, but he blocked her, seeming to know her exact move before she made it, and he peered at her quizzically. "The way you fight is interesting," he said. She shook her broken, bloody arm, tears seeping through her eyelashes. If she could get the fucking weight off her, this would all be easier. "Very interesting. Who taught you?"

She shook the weight even harder, biting her tongue as the sharp corners of the weight dug into her skin, peeling it back.

"Well, shit," said Kenny, his lips turning in a humorless smile. He released her neck to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She shuddered in disgust. _Get off me, get off me, get off me_—

Something slammed into Kenny Ackerman, throwing him to the floor and giving her back her legs and spine. She tore the weight from her arm, gritting her teeth as she pried it from the ugly, splintered wound. Blood trickled down to her fingers, staining her white costume with thick blots dotting the sheer fabric. She sat up, blinking through her tears as she listening to the scuffling of two men on the floor, fists flying, legs jerking. She held her arm carefully as she met Levi's eye, his face contorted in rage. It was rare she saw him lose his cool like this. Usually it was only when someone had done a horrendous crime.

"You son of a bitch," Levi said in a hollow voice as his eyes rested on her busted arm.

"No, Levi," said Kenny, "that would be you."

Mikasa jumped as Levi let out an inhuman snarl, his lips curling back to reveal his teeth, and when he tried to smash the man's nose into his skull, Kenny ducked. She watched, a little startled as they traded blows, neither man hitting one another, and they simply… moved around each other, ducking, striking air, curling in and away from one another as though they could predict every step, every blow, before it ever came.

She cautiously slid herself closer to the railing, hoping to shield herself or at the very least pull herself upright. She watched Levi kick at Kenny, but Kenny grabbed his ankle just as he had caught Mikasa's. Before Kenny could throw Levi at the railing, however, Levi used his momentum to push off Kenny's shoulders and propel himself backwards, crouching in front of Mikasa with one arm curving back over her protectively. She scowled at his back.

"Okay, tell me," Kenny said, pulling a gun out from beneath his jacket. In his other hand he held a knife. "You taught her to fight. What's the girl to you?"

"Leave her alone," Levi said quietly. "Just fight me."

"Surprisingly enough, I'm not here for your scrawny ass." Kenny's eyes traveled to Mikasa, and she pulled the weight closer to her side, letting her blood seep onto her skirt. It's not like she'd be able to finish the show anyway. "She your whore?"

Levi dove at him, ducking the blade and actually landing a hit, his heel colliding with the man's gut. Unfortunately, the butt of Kenny's gun smacked Levi in the temple, forcing him to tumble onto his side. Mikasa leapt to her feet, gasping, "Levi!" But Kenny trained his gun on her, leveling it with her left kneecap. She couldn't afford to lose a leg too.

"Did that hit a soft spot?" Kenny asked, his voice cold and sharp and snapping like icicles from gutters, smashing into the ground and shattering across the air. "She's cute. Too cute for you. She could make actual money with that face, and that body. Not to mention her… more unique qualities."

"You're disgusting," Levi said quietly, pushing himself to his hands and knees. Mikasa nearly lurched forward at the sight of Levi getting kneed in the gut, but she was keenly aware of the gun trained on her. She had to be careful.

"I thought you didn't like sex." Kenny toed Levi, hopping over his leg when it jutted out to trip him. "Seems to me you do a whole lot of it. And you call me disgusting."

When Levi tried to sit up, Kenny caught him by the shoulder, and they struggled for a moment before Mikasa watched Levi's face crash into the tile, cracking it cleanly. She stumbled toward him, but Kenny turned his face to her, his fingers tightening on his gun. She forced herself to freeze, throbbing arm swinging limply.

"Back up, girl," Kenny ordered. She didn't at first, but when Kenny's finger moved to the trigger, she took a swift step back. She was too disoriented to know for sure that she could dodge a bullet. "So, are you his whore? Tell it to me true, I'm not in any mood for bullshit."

Mikasa wrinkled her nose in disgust. Levi had raised his head, and his nose was a bloody mess, streams of red pressing to his swollen lips. He was giving her a look, but she found she couldn't read it. "No," she said, unable to keep the horror from her voice.

"Leave her alone," Levi said through a mouthful of blood.

"Let the lady speak, Levi," Kenny reprimanded, kneeling down beside Levi's crumpled body. His gun was still pointed steadily at Mikasa. Great. Had no one heard them fighting? She hoped not. It'd only cause trouble. "And mind your tongue. Unlike her, I don't need you alive."

"You won't kill me," Levi mumbled, rising upon his elbows. He twisted his face and spat in Kenny's face, a glob of phlegm and blood slipping against the man's cheek. Mikasa flinched as Kenny backhanded him, far harder than the man had backhanded her, and if it had hurt him he made no sign of it. His lips turned into a sneer.

"You think I won't gut you like the filthy pig you are?" Kenny whispered, his icy voice making Mikasa absolutely furious. He was going to pay for this. She was going to make him pay for all of this. But she couldn't move. Not while he had that gun on her. So she watched as the man nicked behind Levi's ear with the tip of his knife, humming as he said, "When was the last time you cut your hair? I thought I taught you proper hygiene."

_Oh_, Mikasa thought, nauseated as her eyes darted between the two men. The similarities were striking but the differences were clear. Levi wasn't cruel. He was mean, callous, and annoying, yeah, but he never _meant_ any harm. This man wanted to make Levi suffer.

"Maybe," Levi snapped, his mouth a bubble of blood and saliva, "you should have taught me less about hygiene, and more about people."

"Did you not learn that at whore-school?" Kenny asked coldly.

Levi winced as though he'd been struck again, and Mikasa swallowed the lump in her throat. Her entire arm, and some of her side, was enveloped in a fiery sort of agony, and everything was hurting to move.

"Nice," Levi croaked. "Nice. Your jokes are almost as bad as your stench."

_Is this really happening?_ Mikasa leaned back against the railing behind her, utterly stunned by the maturity level here. It was like watching two grown-ass men play the most dangerous version of the name game ever. So far it seemed Levi only got really pissed when Kenny attacked Mikasa, or her virtue, or whatever. He should know better than to let things like that get to him. No matter who's saying them.

"You still haven't answered me," Kenny sighed. "You know I'm not that patient. Tell me what this girl is to you. Or I'll shoot both her kneecaps out."

Levi laughed. Mikasa was momentarily amazed, because the sound was so foreign to her, and it sounded like a cross between a gurgle and a dying kitten. He sat up straight, and he stared into Kenny's hollow eyes. He showed his red stained teeth, which glistened against the dim light of the stairwell.

"You wanna know how quick we'll get a crowd if you shoot that gun?" Levi hung his head back, coughing on blood. "Be my guest."

Interestingly enough, Kenny paused, his eyes narrowing at Mikasa's face. No gun meant no holding back. She would break this man like a toothpick. _He knows Levi's moves_, she realized, _because he must have taught him how to fight. And Levi taught me how to fight. Which means I can't fight like myself. I have to use a different style if I want to beat him_.

Then, before she could so much as budge, she heard the sound of a blade sinking into soft flesh. Levi buckled in place, and Mikasa didn't understand how he could have let that happen, how stupid he was to let something like a knife get to him. As he pulled the knife out, Levi's fingers flew to the open wound, pressing against it to staunch the flow of blood. Kenny wiped off the blood on Levi's suit coat, glancing at him with a bored expression. "Don't look so surprised. I told you I'd gut you, you little bastard whore."

Mikasa lurched forward, ignoring the blazing pain in her arm, and she whirled so fast on pointe, her toes protesting in agony as she spun and kicked the man in the throat with the wooden tips of her pointe shoes. While her foot was in the air, she let her heel collide with a pressure point in his shoulder, and then the reared back, dropping from pointe and ducking his knife as it flashed above her head. She lifted herself on her toes, winding her leg around his forearm, digging her pointe shoe into his chest and dropping from pointe, smiling as she heard a satisfying _pop_. His gun fell from his useless hand, his dislocated shoulder forcing his arm to hang limply as she flipped back onto her good hand, recalling her gymnastic training with Jean, and she dodged another swift uppercut from his knife. Instead of continuing on with this, she cartwheeled one-handed right over the fallen gun, and steadied herself upright. The drifts of red stained, snowy fabric flowed down against her ankles. She pointed the gun between his eyes.

"Leave him alone," she said, gripping the gun with one hand, feeling for the trigger.

Kenny tilted his head. "You're much better than him," he informed her, his voice croaking. "More creative."

"Yeah, I don't give a shit," she said, pressing the barrel of the gun to his forehead. She saw his fingers tighten against the knife in his fist, and she blocked his arm by kicking her leg above her head as she'd done numerous times that night, and she used her broken arm to grasp the knife by the blade, hissing through her teeth as she pried it out of his hands, blood slick on her steel-bitten fingers.

Kenny Ackerman's eyes seemed to finally get a good look at her. They flashed, and he stared at her in mild awe. "His daughter," he said, sounding almost fond. "Not what I expected."

"Shut up," she whispered, her finger on the trigger. Her heart was thudding so hard, and her arm and hand and feet were aching, throbbing, agonizing. Everything was on fire, and nothing could be moved without a blinding rush of pain flooding over her senses.

"I'm impressed," he said, breathing his tobacco-scented breath into her face. "Genuinely. I never thought my son would raise such a wonderful killer."

Mikasa's mouth went dry.

She lifted the gun from his forehead, and she took a step back.

"Leave," she whispered.

He stared at her. He looked disappointed.

"Go!" she screamed, her voice cracking in distress, and she waved the gun at glowing red Exit sign a flight of stairs away. Slowly Kenny turned from her, moving down the stairwell at an excruciating pace. When he made it to the landing, he looked back up at her. She took aim quickly, and squeezed the trigger.

The sound was deafening, but she was already a little deaf to the world, and she watched with some satisfaction as the bullet tore through his shoulder good shoulder, spilling his blood onto the floor. That'd be enough to prove he'd been there. His fingerprints would be on the hilt of the knife, since she hadn't touched it. She watched as he escaped hastily out the door, hobbling as he bled.

After a few moments, she dropped the gun and the knife and slid to her knees at Levi's side. Her skirt was half-soaked in blood now, deepening red blooming across the once pretty white fabric. He was staring at her, looking a little dazed, with his hands against his stomach and his bloody mouth parted.

"Levi," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "I'm… I'm sorry… I…"

"Why…" he muttered, blood smacking against his lips, "are you… apologizing…?"

"For… getting angry, I guess," she whispered. "And for letting this happen…"

"This happened," Levi said, his breaths heavy and shallow, "because… I was stupid… carless… scared…"

"You?" She searched his face, listening to his ragged breaths. "Scared?"

"It's not impossible… you little bitch…" He closed his eyes, and she quickly touched his face, whispering feverishly, "No, no, no, you don't get to sleep." He opened his eyes again, blinking. "I'm not gonna die," he said flatly. "He missed the shit I need. Think he hit me where I got hit in Rome. Figures."

"Were you drinking last night because…?" Mikasa had only just thought of it, and as he turned his face away, she felt painfully guilty. "Didn't you… want to tell me something?"

"This wasn't…" He coughed, spraying blood across her shoulder. He grimaced and tried to wipe it off, but since his fingers were blood slicked, it didn't work out so well. "This wasn't what I had in mind… but I guess you could assume a little bit about my… uh, past from what that fuckface said to me."

"He kept calling you a whore," Mikasa said. He grimaced. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a gurgling sound, blood filming his mouth. Mikasa instinctively wrapped her arms around him, letting him slump against her. She felt as though she was taking care of a child, and not the man that had practically raised her. She didn't mind, though. In fact, she liked this. It made her feel needed, for once, and he let her hug him, even going so far as to press his cheek to her collarbone. She rested her chin in his hair. "Did you like the ballet?"

He grunted against her skin, bloody smearing against her shoulder. His words were muffled as he spoke, and thick with blood. "Very touchy. But, whatever… you looked happy."

"I was acting," she said quietly.

"You can't act worth a dime, Mikasa."

She ignored that, deciding it wasn't worth the fight. "We need to get to a hospital," she whispered as the sound of running feet filled the stairwell.

"No."

"Yes."

"You go to the hospital," he mumbled into her shoulder. She could feel his blood seeping against her stomach. She was growing terrified for him. "I'll go home… take a nap…"

"Don't be such a baby." She sighed against his hair, her head pounding, her arm throbbing, her heart thudding. She was glad for him. She was glad he was so protective of her, even though she didn't need his protection, and she was glad he seemed to care about her so much. She had never noticed before, how much he cared. It was genuinely heartwarming. She smiled against his hair, despite the smell of blood and smoke that hounded him, and she raised her head when a few faces poked over the railing above them to see the damage done. They spotted her, all red and white and holding a limp body, and one of them screamed.

"Um," Mikasa called up to them, her voice breaking from the pain, "can somebody call an ambulance?"

"I fuckin' hate you…" Levi whispered.

_No_, Mikasa thought happily, resting her chin back against his hair, _you don't_.

* * *

_If you're curious, yes. I watched the ballet, Giselle, as I was writing this chapter. _

_i hate kenny ackerman so much i'm cry, he's such a joke_

_But yeah, this chapter was mostly written for the bonding aspect. A little break from the main plot? Probably a needed one._

_i enjoy families ok gbye forever_


	24. imitation of a god

_**imitatio dei**_

**Salem, Oregon**

_a.d. pr. Kalendas Novembres, 2766 A.U.C_

"Levi's a grown up, Eren," Hange was saying to him, as Jean examined his guns with a bored expression. "He can make his own grown up choices."

"But he really, really shouldn't have been drinking," Eren said, his voice pleading with them so they'd understand why this was so important. Jean glanced at him. They were in the jet on their way to Connie's house to check on Petra. Jean had told both of them to keep the location away from Armin. When Eren had asked why, Jean had shrugged and said that's just was Armin had told him.

"Look," Hange said gently, "I'll check it out. But seriously, I can't stop Levi from drinking if he wants to drink. I'm not his nanny."

Eren scowled, settling back into his seat. Jean was glaring at him, as he tended to, and Eren was kinda sick of his attitude already. Why did he get this mission? What the fuck were Reiner and Bertholdt doing? Eren knew Historia and Armin were preparing to head out to Washington DC, after finding out that they were fucking siblings, because like, that was something that had happened.

He'd reacted as calmly as one would expect.

"What the sweet lovin' fuck are you even talkin' about?" he'd blurted at Armin when he had pulled Eren into the boy's bathroom at school to tell him.

"She's my sister." Armin squeezed Eren's hands, his blue eyes glowing in strange awe of his own words. Eren could feel his apprehension and fear, but also his excitement. "We have the same mom. Isn't it so strange?"

"Uh…" Eren had still been trying to process the word _sister_. "That's one word for it."

And Mikasa had that ballet. Eren was kinda disappointed he had to miss that. He was also a little worried about her. He'd never seen her act like that before, and he was scared that maybe now wasn't the best time for her to be alone. He still had the taste of her in his mouth, the strange flow of mint tea burning his tongue. Eren didn't know how Armin handled the sensations of _tasting_ people all the time. It made him a little sick to his stomach, even though Mikasa had a pleasant, warm taste.

"Hey," Eren said suddenly, twisting to face Jean. The guy looked surprised, and a little irritated that Eren was talking to him. "You saw Annie, right? Recently?"

"Yeah…" Jean grimaced, his long face scrunching in distaste. "It sucked."

"Seems like anything involving Annie sucks," Eren sighed, rubbing his head furiously. Jean glanced at him, giving him a peculiar look.

"You said you don't think she's in control of her actions, right, Jean?" Hange chirped from the pilot's chair. Jean nodded mutely. "What could force her to do such horrible things, I wonder…"

"Ilse said it was because she loved her," Jean said quietly.

"Mm, that's creepy," they sighed. "Really creepy. Poor Annie."

"Poor Annie," Jean echoed dully.

"Quit pitying her," Eren snapped. Jean shot him a look, disgust twisting about his features. "She doesn't need our pity, she needs our help!"

"She didn't seem so willing when I tried," Jean said sharply. "What makes you think you can convince her?"

"Because I actually know her, maybe?" Eren rolled his eyes.

Jean didn't argue with him, surprisingly. It was true, though! Eren had actually been Annie's friend before this debacle, while Jean had been nothing but an acquaintance. Eren was desperately clinging to the fact that Annie could be saved, somehow. He couldn't hate her, and he couldn't leave her alone to some psychopath from the institute who'd only manipulate her into stealing more lives. No. Eren was a hero. He was gonna fucking save her.

Somehow.

Eren didn't actually know Jean very well. In fact, Eren wasn't sure, but he thought this might be the first mission they actually had together. It was hard to tell when all the days started blurring together, missions never succeeding quite as planned. Their mission today was to take Petra from Connie's house to Rico's apartment in San Francisco. It was safer if she wasn't with a teammate.

For a little while they were all actually quiet, nothing but the sound of the wind rushing over the plane's wings filling the vacuous space. Eren thought about his mother, about the information Jean had given them about Ymir and Ilse, and he felt so stupidly confused. He wanted to make Ymir pay for what she had done to his mother. But there was something just… not _right_ about this entire situation!

"Stop it!" Jean snapped suddenly, throwing a scathing look Eren's way. Eren blinked in confusion, turning to face the boy. Jean as rubbing the back of his neck, looking furious and a little uncomfortable as he pulled at his collar.

"I didn't do anything," Eren said, sneering at Jean. "Calm the fuck down."

"Hey," Hange said sharply, "do I have to put this thing on autopilot?"

"No…" Eren and Jean said reluctantly in unison, shooting glares at one another. This was already a little too annoying to bear. He hoped the mission wouldn't take long.

In truth, Eren had calmed down slightly since he'd returned from Italy. He still wanted to smash Ymir's face into a brick wall, but hey. He wondered if she had healing abilities, like Annie and him. That meant he could prolong some real hurting. But, well, he wasn't exactly the type to torture. He just wanted to beat her up and just… understand. Maybe.

Eren felt tired. Maybe this was what it was like to grow up. Dulled senses and dulled motivations. He supposed it was a good thing that he no longer felt the vicious need to rip Ymir's intestines out of her gut and strangle her with them. He didn't want to be a murderer, and he didn't even know if Ymir actually… deserved it…?

This was fucking stupid.

What had she been doing in his house, anyway?

They landed in Oregon around the time you'd expect trick or treaters to be out. The sun had only just barely sunk below the horizon, and the shady streets were bathed in the grayscale twilight, coupled by the spill of yellow streetlamps flickering on. Eren rolled his shoulders, feeling a little chilly in this late October air. Wind was hissing past his ears, and clouds rolled dimly across the sky, threatening to spit rain across the festive night.

"I wish we coulda gone trick or treatin'," Eren said suddenly as they passed a group of children garbed in outrageous costumes. They were on Connie's street, and Hange was leading them confidently, grinning broadly at all the little kids rushing about.

"What are you, twelve?" Jean scoffed.

Eren gave him a sharp, incredulous stare. "I spent a good chunk of my childhood in a lab," Eren said fiercely. "You wanna fuckin' go?"

Jean looked momentarily remorseful as he turned his face away. Hange laughed, turning their face back at them and shaking her head. "Don't mind him," they said. "He's always been grumpy about Halloween."

In truth, he'd always been grumpy about the fact that he'd never gotten to go trick or treating with Mikasa and Armin. And now, the first year they actually could, they were all stuck on separate missions. Again! _When are they gonna send us out together?_ he wondered. _We'd kick ass!_

Hange leapt up onto Connie's stoop, pounding on the door as Jean and Eren avoided each other's eyes. There had to be a reason Jean didn't like him. Eren knew there had to be a reason, but he really couldn't think of one. Damn. Like, they barely knew each other. This was kinda ridiculous.

The door swung open, and Connie appeared with a bowl of candy held under one arm. He took one look at them, and there was a momentary flash of panic as his eyes fell on Eren's face. And then he leaned back, his dark face contorting in confusion.

"Don't you people ever _call_?" he squeaked.

"Expect the unexpected!" Hange chirped. "Can we come in?"

"Uh…" Connie looked down at his feet, shuffling as he stepped aside. "Sure… I guess…"

Eren sensed something was off immediately. Connie was watching him with an unusual wariness as they stepped into his home, his eyes following Eren's back as he walked. A boy came running into the room, tiny and grinning through the hole in the mouth of his fleshy Rogue mask. Eren was initially startled to see his monstrous face on such a tiny body, and he watched the boy raise his fists and let out a pitiful little roar, taking a swing at Connie. Connie was far too fast to be hit, though, and he grimaced as he glanced at Eren.

"I'm his brother, and I'm not even his favorite hero," Connie said glumly. "Thanks for that."

"Glad to help," Eren said, struck dumb by the sight of a little kid dressed up as him. The boy pulled the Rogue mask up, blinking his dark eyes up at Eren's face in wonder.

"Holy crap," the boy gasped, bouncing in place. "No way! No way, no _way_! Connie, you didn't say Rogue was coming, you weenie!"

"Weenie," Jean repeated quietly, snorting into his hand.

"I didn't _know_ Rogue was coming here," Connie sighed, shooting a glare at the three of them. It was a little half-hearted. "Or else I would've like, cleaned up. Or… something."

"The house is totally clean, though," the boy said blankly.

"Yeah, whatever, shut up and go bother Mari."

"Mari is getting ready," the boy whined, "and Eliza's already gone, I think, she went with her friends. Are you going trick or treating with us, Connie? Are Petra and Y—?"

"Yeah, no," Connie said sharply, grabbing the boy by the shoulders and whirling him around. "The only people taking you out tonight are mom and dad."

"What about Sasha?" he asked eagerly. "She likes me better than you."

"That's because you shared a twix bar with her, not because she actually likes you." Connie shoved the boy into the hallway. "Go tell mom and dad to just take you already, Mark, holy shit."

"Can I get a picture with Rogue?" Mark gasped.

"No!" Connie rubbed his forehead furiously, looking ready to hurl something at Mark in order to force him to leave. "God, you're annoying!"

"Yeah, you love me!" Mark cackled, rushing out of the room.

"I'd love you in a ditch," Connie muttered, turning to face them again. He smiled guiltily. "Sorry. Full house. That gets him overexcited, for some reason."

"Can't imagine where he gets it from," Jean said dryly.

"Ha ha." Connie rolled his eyes. "Cute, Jean. Real cute. So what's the deal? We got a mission?"

"Nah," Hange said. "You don't. We're just here to pick up Petra and move her to a safer location."

"Oh," Conne said, his eyes widening. "Dang. O…kay. She's not really ready to leave."

"We have plenty of time," Hange said. They were smiling brightly as Connie looked away, his muscles taut. "Actually, I kinda want to talk to your parents."

"Oh god," Connie croaked, his eyes bulging out of his head. Hange laughed easily, shaking their head.

"Don't worry!" they gasped. "Seriously, I just want to give them a heads up about the team, make sure they're okay with everything. I don't really get the chance to meet the kids' parents. Ever." They smiled warmly, and shrugged. "It's a nice change."

"But… my parents are like…" Connie looked a little miserable as he slumped. "Oh, whatever. Mom! Company!"

His voice echoed strangely though the house, allowing a silence to fall over them. Eren looked around curiously, his eyes moving from the deserted living room to the shoes piled near the doorway, some caked with mud, some bent and worn, some small, some busted beyond repair. Eren turned his face toward Connie's mother as she stepped out of the hallway, blinking curiously at them.

"Hello," she said. She was a woman with a face a lot like Connie's, her eyes and mouth and cheeks the same. She had a long nose, though, and a pointed chin. Her complexion was dark, like Connie's, and lined from age. She looked clearly astonished to see them. "Hange, right? It's nice to see you again. How's that boy doing?"

"Armin is a lot better," Hange said, smiling brightly. Eren had to look away to hide his face. _Liar_, he thought. Armin wasn't doing any better at all. He just pretended like he was. Everyone could tell he was just faking smiles, trying to get through the day without hiccup. Eren was worried, but there was nothing he could do. He felt like Armin was constantly burrowing himself further into his mind, and shutting out as many people as he possibly could. And, like, how was Eren supposed to help? None of them knew what was wrong, let alone how to fix it. And Armin's refusal to see a doctor about it made it all the worse.

It made sense, but like… wasn't Armin's health more important than their secrets?

_We need to find my dad_, Eren thought. _For Armin_.

"Do you know what was wrong with him?" Connie's mother asked worriedly. Her lips thinned out as she glanced between the three of them. Connie was standing behind her, staring into the bowl of candy with a pensive expression.

"Armin's power deals with telepathy and empathy," Hange said slowly. "There was a lot of grief in the air that day. I think it just overwhelmed him."

Once again, a lie. Eren couldn't even say anything, because he didn't know what to say to counter her words. They just didn't know. What were the hallucinations and the seizures? What did any of it mean?

"Ah," said Connie's mother. She nodded, glancing at Connie. "I understand. Was there something in particular you wanted…?"

"Yeah!" Hange beamed, rocking back on their heels. "Yeah, actually, well there's a lot I wanted to talk to you about. Last time I was here I didn't exactly have the time to chat." Hange had their people smile on. It was dim enough not to freak people out, and it was so familiar to Eren to watch them play different parts in order to appease people. They knew how to act, that was for sure. Eren had always admired them for it, but sometimes it was strange to see. He didn't know what to think of the fake Hange.

He didn't delude himself into thinking they were happy all the time. On the contrary, he knew Hange to be eccentric, but not foolish. They were often angry or sad just as often as they were bouncing off the walls with excitement. They just didn't like to show that so plainly.

"No," Connie's mother said, "I guess not. Well, actually, I was just about to head out with my son and husband. If it's a problem, one of us can stay here, or you can come with us—"

"You're inviting me to go trick or treating with you?" Hange's eyes lit up significantly. "You are angelic. Truly angelic."

Hange and Eren had gone trick or treating once, which had led to a disaster that had ended with Hange's leg in a cast, and Eren at the bottom of the Hudson. He'd gotten out, of course, but damn, it hadn't been a fun experience.

"I'm sure the kids can be trusted here," Connie's mother said, smiling gently. Connie stared at her incredulously, and gaped at her as she passed by him. "Let me go tell my husband, okay?"

"Mom, are you—?" Connie looked almost infuriated. "Wow, she is, okay."

"Y'all gonna be alright here?" Hange asked, turning to face them. They reached out and ruffled Eren's hair, and he blinked rapidly up at them.

"Are you making fun of my accent?" he asked with a frown, ducking out from under her fingers. Hange smiled sweetly.

"Oh, Eren," they said, their voice lowering into a soft drawl, "'_c__ourse_ not."

"Where is your accent even from, anyway?" Jean asked suddenly. Eren glanced at the boy dubiously, surprised that the boy was asking such an innocent question.

"Oklahoma," Eren answered after a few moments of silence.

"Huh," Jean said. He nodded slowly, awkwardly. Maybe he was getting over whatever weird dislike he had for Eren. Jean turned his attention to Connie. "So, where's Petra?"

"Um…" Connie bit his lip, looking a little uncertain as he glanced between them. Eren watched him curiously. "In… the attic."

"What the fuck is she doing there?" Eren scoffed.

Connie's eyes widened momentarily, and he looked a little terrified as he stood there, his mouth opening and staying open. His voice broke a little as he spoke, revealing his distress. "We keep our old photos up there," he squeaked. "She's been looking through them. Hoping to, like, find answers, or something. I don't know."

Well, it sounded fair enough. If not for Connie's terrible ability to keep his anxiety in check. He was clearly hiding something from them. It was written in his taut muscles, in his thin lips, in the layer of sweat on his brow. It was written in the way his eyes were darting away from them, unable to meet their gazes. It was his entire demeanor, and it had been that way since they'd walked in.

But what the fuck could _Connie_ be hiding, anyway?

Hange ended up leaving with Connie's mother, father, and brother. It was likely they just wanted to get them in private to have like, grown up conversations, or whatever. It was so strange to Eren, seeing Hange act "grown up". Like they were a completely different person altogether, and the world had suffered a shift in balance, and now had to be seen at a crooked angle.

"Don't burn the house down," Hange teased, knocking Eren playfully over the head. Eren glowered at them, batting away at their hand and ducking their attempts to catch him by the hood.

"Yeah, yeah," he said blandly. "Have fun. Whatever."

Connie's mother was hushing Mark as she turned to Connie, her lips pursed. "Make sure Petra's all ready to go by the time we get back," she said.

"Sure…" Connie scratched his cheek, and he nodded uncertainly. "Yeah."

Mark paused before Eren, pushing up his mask to deliver a toothy grin, eyes alight with anticipation and awe. "When we get back," he gasped, bouncing back on his heels, "you've gotta sign this for me!"

"The mask?" Eren's eyebrows shot up, and he glanced at Hange desperately for support. They only smiled brightly, eyes twinkling as they turned to Connie's father and brightly asked him what he did for a living. "Uh… okay? I mean, yeah. Definitely!"

"Sweet!" Mark cried, punching the air triumphantly. The mask fell down over his face once more, and he laughed as he whirled away from Eren, ducking under Jean's arm and jumping up to his mother's side. "You're so much cooler than Connie!"

"What the hell, Mark?" Connie groaned, clapping his hands against his forehead in disbelief. "Ugh, go. Just go."

"You should be nicer to your brother, Connie," his father warned.

"Are you kidding?" Connie squeaked miserably, flinging his arms into the air. "I can't win!"

It was strange, watching Connie interact with his parents. Eren only vaguely remembered his own experiences dealing with his mother. Her nagging was constant, and her anger severe. She always made him do things, stretch and walk and try a little harder and carry this and reach for that and sit down and stretch some more. Maybe she thought that if he just exercised his limbs enough they'd keep working, somehow. He remembered the smell of her hair as she tucked him into bed, kissing both his knees before pulling the blanket over him, and then kissing his forehead. Lilacs stung his nostrils, a scent he knew all too well.

After the adults and Mark actually left, Jean and Eren just glanced at each other. It seemed Eren wasn't the only one who had noticed the strangeness of it all. Connie was definitely hiding something. As Eren read Jean's face, the way his brow knitted, he could tell the boy knew it too. Then Eren looked to Connie, who was standing awkwardly with his thumb against his lips, biting away at his cuticles as his eyes darted quickly to a door that looked to be a designated closet, something close to the front door but not too far from the hall. Eren could hear the boy's teeth crack as they tore at his skin.

"So…" Eren's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Petra?"

"Yeah…" Connie blinked dazedly, and he nodded fast. "Yeah, I'll go get her."

"Why can't we come?" Eren asked, checking his phone quickly to make a point. "We've got some time to kill, right? We could probably help Petra get her stuff together."

"Or at least investigate more of your grandpa's photos," Jean said. He was picking at his own fingernails, looking a little bored. But Eren could tell that he was just as suspicious, and just as confused with this ordeal. There was something wrong here. Something just didn't feel right.

"Um…" Connie's eyes flashed wide. "No. No, you can't go up there."

"Why?" Eren scoffed. "It's just an attic."

"It's not safe!" Connie's voice cracked as he waved his hands hurriedly, his eyes bulging out of his head, his lips parting in horror. "I mean, for too many— uh, like, people, y'know? The floors totally about to cave. Me and Petra, we're tiny shit, we won't break the floor, but add you two and we might as well say bye bye to this entire room."

"Yeesh." Eren quirked an eyebrow. He didn't buy it. "I don't even weigh that much. Jean, yeah, maybe, but—"

"I doubt I weigh more than you," Jean sneered. "I _doubt_ it."

"Yeah?" Eren turned to face Jean, observing his furious expression with a mild stare. "You wanna bet, starshine?"

"Yeah, no." Connie stepped between them, looking suddenly much more composed. His acute brows were furrowed, and his lips were pressed thinly together. "No fist fights in the house."

"We can totally take it outside," Jean said coolly.

"Oh man," Eren said, lips pulling back into a wide grin. "Love to! But it ain't fair to pick on such a newbie fighter—"

Eren reeled back in surprise as a fist came centimeters from his nose, freezing in midair as it was caught by a blur of a hand, shaking against Connie's grip. Jean's teeth were bared, his shoulders rigid, and Eren could only inwardly laugh at how gullible this guy was. How stupid! God, Eren wanted to beat the shit out of him!

Wait. Not the mission. Not important.

Well, some other time, probably.

"Quit it," Connie said, shoving Jean's fist away. "Look, I dunno what you guys are on right now, but you've gotta like, grow a pair, or something, because we don't have the time to bicker. Pick fights on your own time."

"Behold," Jean said with a smirk, "the voice of reason."

"_I'm_ gonna punch you if you don't stop," Connie warned, though he was smiling minutely.

"Yeah, whatever."

Eren was about to retort when a girl appeared from the hall, dark eyes flashing between the three of them. She was wearing her hair short hair slicked back and parted neatly, her very acutely turned eyebrows managed somehow in order to make them appear less prominent. She was wearing a white suit, old fashioned in style with a high waist and very long coattails. She studied them for a few moments before looking pointedly at Connie.

"Did mom and dad leave?"

Connie's sister, then. Mari? She was pretty, but kinda weird to look at. Her face was strange. Too sharp, maybe? Eren was reminded, vaguely, of Ymir's face as he peered at the girl's dark complexion. It wasn't too noticeable, but Eren remembered the picture of Ymir in a suit from the Beta Squad mission. They looked strangely similar, and it made Eren uncomfortable.

"Yeah, just now." Connie didn't look at his sister, but he did vibrate in place, his expression anxious. "What the fuck are you supposed to be, a waiter?"

"Jay Gatsby," Mari corrected, appearing unfazed. She pulled out her phone, checking it quickly, and Connie looked a little exasperated.

"Don't tell me you're leaving now too," Connie said quickly, his words melting into one another, fast paced and barely comprehensible.

"I'm not sticking around to be stuck on candy duty with you," Mari said, rolling her eyes. She glanced up from her phone, and nodded curtly. "Hey, Jean."

"Hi, Marigold," Jean said. Eren was a little confused about how they knew one another until he remembered that everyone had gone to a funeral here except him.

"Who're you?" Mari asked, turning her eyes upon Eren. Before Eren could answer, she shook her head and said quickly, "No, wait, let me guess! Rogue, right?"

"Congrats!" Connie cried, throwing his hands into the air. "You identified Eren, the one hero you haven't actually met! Great job!"

"You can cut back the 'tude, little dude," Mari sneered. She brushed past them, waving back offhandedly. "I'll be back by midnight, probably. Good luck with the attic situation."

"Seriously?" Connie exhaled sharply, glowering at Mari's back as she kicked a few shoes out of the way of the front door. She smiled back at him sweetly before she exited the house, laughing a little as the door slammed shut. Connie slumped, and Eren saw his eyes, the way they fluttered wide in terror. He was so bad at hiding things. Eren had to supposed they were lucky no one had come for Petra, because he was really not equipped for the pressure.

"Y'know, your sister is kinda hot," Jean said quietly, his eyes lingering on the door. Eren couldn't help but roll his eyes, and Connie snorted in response.

"Yeah, well, she's gay as fuck, so…" Connie smiled brightly, and he chirped, "Good luck with that!"

"Hey, I wasn't gonna ask her out!" Jean leaned back in alarm. "I was just saying!"

"She kinda looks like Ymir," Eren said darkly. Jean and Connie fell silent, staring at him vacantly.

Jean turned to Connie, his brow furrowed. "Does he not know?" he asked slowly.

"Do I not know what?" Eren asked sharply as Connie's expression transformed in alarm, his mouth parting and his eyes darting. Once again he looked anxious and a little terrified.

"Um— oh." Connie scratched his scalp, his fingers running in a blur across his stubble. "Shit… Look, I dunno how to explain it."

"How about," Jean said, rolling his eyes, "you tell him about the photograph of your great aunt Ymir."

"Great aunt…?" Eren's eyes flashed to Connie's startled face, and he felt his confusion only grow. "What the fuck is he talking about? Ymir's like, sixteen, or something, she can't be a great aunt."

"Yeah, okay," Connie sighed. "Okay… look. It's not easy to explain. So… um… I'm not gonna explain it." He squeezed his eyes shut as Eren spluttered in aggravation. Connie held up one finger, and then in a great gust of wind he was gone, and a closet door was open, crashing against the wall, and there was a ladder pulled down within it. Eren stood for a moment, his brow furrowing and his anger spiking.

"What the fuck, Connie?" Eren shouted, marching toward the closet door. Jean hung back while Eren stopped at the ladder, craning his neck to peer up at the hole in the ceiling. There was some muffled words floating through the floorboards, and Eren heard his name, and the rushed staccato of Connie's words. "Connie!"

"Hold on!" Connie called. "One sec, okay?"

"No fuckin' way!" Eren gripped the ladder, but found himself reluctant to climb it. "Tell me what the fuck is going on! Right now!"

"Do you always overreact?" Jean stated in an amused tone.

"Shut up," Eren snapped back at him. He turned his head back up to the attic. "Damn it, Connie! What's going on? Things are confusing enough without all these fuckin' secrets!"

"Calm down!" Connie poked his head out of the hole, his eyes wide and beseeching. "Please! You've gotta be calm, or else we won't be able to figure _anything_ out!"

"I'm perfectly fuckin' calm, you big ol'—"

"Connie, please move," a soft voice said. A head of strawberry blonde hair was suddenly in Connie's place, warm eyes shadowed by the dim light of the attic. Petra Ral smiled gently, waving as she knelt over the trap door. "It's nice to see you again, Eren."

"Yeah," Eren said, his nerves chilling a little at the sight of her. "Yeah, hey, Petra. What's going on?"

"Oh," Petra sighed, shaking her head. She glanced away, toward something else in the attic, and Eren heard muttering. Who was Connie talking to? "Oh, it's so hard to explain. Here, let me get down."

Eren moved away from the ladder quickly, watching Petra easily slip down the rungs and land gracefully on her feet. She smiled warmly up at him, dusting off her skirt, which was black and flaring around her hips. He saw that dust clung to the folds of the fabric, and he wondered how long she'd been up there.

"Whoo!" She laughed, shaking out her limp waves of hair, as she squinted through the light of the living room. "I could go for some fresh air. Oh! Hey, Jean!" She beamed at the other boy in the room, who smiled and waved a little uncertainly. "I'm going to assume I've been reassigned?"

"Yeah," Eren said, frowning. "Sorry. You can't go home just yet. We haven't had any Ilse sightings since Jean."

"Auruo keeps bothering me," Jean said, his expression twisting. "He's always like, whining about how no one's attacked the apartment yet, and stuff. I think he just wants to kill someone, honestly."

"He thinks he can beat anyone because he's got so many weapons stashed," Petra sighed, shaking her head in disbelief. "Tell him to quit being so stupid."

"I already did," Jean said. "He doesn't listen."

She smiled wanly, and shrugged. "Yeah, I'd expect that much, honestly." She turned her attention to Eren, and clasped her hands behind her back. "So, how's Levi?"

_Ah_, Eren thought triumphantly. _Right, someone I can talk to about this_. "He got into a fight with Mikasa this morning," Eren said unthinkingly. He watched her eyes flash wide with concern, and he quickly continued. "He was hungover, and she got really mad because of it, and she actually stormed out of the house. Like, you know Mikasa, right? She never loses her cool like this, not unless she's really upset, and she _was_. Hange told me that there wasn't anything we can do to stop him from drinking, but, like, I don't think that's true…?" Eren paused, and he scratched the back of his neck.

She was staring at him with a sad smile. Eren was surprised, because she didn't look surprised at all. "How much do you know about Levi's past?" she asked tentatively.

Eren swallowed thickly, his thoughts running backward to the blunt conversations he had had with the man in Europe. "A lot," he admitted, averting his gaze. "I mean, not detailed shit, but enough."

"Right." Petra nodded as he glanced back at her. "More than Mikasa, I imagine?"

"Uh, maybe?"

"He doesn't like to tell Mikasa about himself," she sighed. "He loves her too much, I think. They have a strange relationship."

"Yeah…" Eren shot a glare at Jean when he snorted at that. "I mean, they're so much alike, it ain't surprising. But what if this, like, becomes a problem?"

"You mean, what if Levi relapses?" She pursed her lips, turning her eyes up toward the ceiling. "Well, he's got a lot more support than he used to. I don't think there would be much of a problem getting him into rehab."

"But…" He studied her face curiously. She watched him with a small smile. "You don't think it'll come to that."

"I think something must have triggered Levi," she said firmly. "It's more likely that he needs a good talk than anything else. Mikasa getting angry won't help him. Next time you see her, try to convince her to go talk to him. Really talk. Maybe even get him to tell her about the things he's tried to hide from her."

"Okay." He nodded eagerly, his eyes wide as he smiled gratefully. "Thank you. That's a lot better than Hange's answer."

"Hange doesn't know Levi like I do," she said with a shrug. "That's not any fault of theirs, but trust me, Levi isn't the type of person you want to leave alone for very long. He's pretty self-destructive."

"I've noticed," he said, his throat dry.

"Sounds like Levi's been in some nasty shit," Jean observed. He didn't sound surprised.

"It's not pleasant," Petra sighed, "but he's managed. He's very strong."

"Yep, got that," Jean said with a sharp laugh. "So what exactly is going here? Why is Connie so jumpy?"

Petra's smile tightened, and she ran her fingers through her hair. Her eyes darted to Eren's face, and they became very apologetic. He found himself taken aback. What the hell was so bad?

"Well," she said, digging into the pocket of her sweater and withdrawing her phone. "It's honestly not surprising. Um, I heard you asking about Ymir, by the way, so…" She flicked through her phone. "Hold on, I have that picture in here… ah!" She turned the phone toward Eren, and took a step back. "There."

Eren looked down at the phone and saw that it was a photo taken of a photo. It was black and white, easily nearly a century old, with a hazy lens that made it a little difficult to process what he was looking at. But it seemed to be a solemn looking little girl and a woman who could only be her mother, the girl's dark hair and dark skin and freckles standing out amongst the grainy picture. It looked a whole lot like Ymir, but it was so hard to tell from the quality. It was a photograph of an old photograph, something that wasn't in great shape to begin with. Eren didn't get it.

"Um," he said, "okay?"

"That was a picture I took," Jean said, "before Ilse stole my phone. Of a photograph from Connie's grandpa's funeral. Mari told me it was of their great aunt Ymir, but on the back of the photo it said the girl's name was Ilse. Also, that she was dead. Um, we assume."

"What the fuck?" Eren's brain hurt. Like, majorly. "Wait, okay, wait, wasn't Ymir's… grandma's… name Ilse?"

"No," Petra sighed. Eren and Jean focused their attention on her, and she smiled grimly. "Please don't get angry. But I think we're going to get some answers, and the only way that's going to happen is if we all stay calm. Okay?"

"Yeah, sure!" Eren nodded eagerly. "Just tell us!"

"I'm not really the best one to explain it," she said. She turned toward the open closet door, and she called gently, "Guys, come down. I think it's okay now."

Connie was at her side in a second, his eyes downcast. "Don't freak out," he blurted, raising his eyes to Eren's.

He already knew what was coming, he realized, before Ymir even descended from the attic.

It took both Jean and Connie to keep him from leaping at her, and he found himself screaming profanities as he thrashed against Jean's arms, his eyes widening and his heart hurting in fear and anxiety and, of course, rage. Why? Why would they do this? Ymir was a killer! A cold hearted bitch!

It was hypocritical of him, of course, and he knew it. He forgave Annie for Marco's murder, which she was directly responsible for, while he demonized Ymir for his mother's death when he _knew_ that she'd been unstable at the time. But he couldn't help it. If it weren't for her, his mother would still be alive. She'd be alive!

_And where would I be?_ he thought, twisting against Jean's tightening grip. _Barely functioning? How bad would the disease have gotten by now? I'd be almost dead_.

"Eren!" Petra cried. "Eren, you have to calm down! It's not what you think!"

"She killed my mom!" he snarled. "She _killed_ her!"

"Ding dong," Ymir said, her drawl grating against his ears. She looked exhausted, her dark eyes hollow as she stared at him. "You're wrong."

"Are you fuckin' jokin'?" Eren gritted his teeth as he fell back against Jean, wincing as his arm was twisted behind his back. _This isn't a fair fight_, he thought, glaring at Connie's bald little head. "I know you killed her! I was there!"

"Oh golly gosh." Ymir snorted, and shook her head. "So was I, you dunce. Just, y'know, not totally."

"What the fuck does that mean?" Eren spat.

"It was an _accident_," Ymir said sharply, taking a step forward. Petra attempted to stop her, but she brushed her arm away. "Look. I know I'm not the nicest person ever. I try not to be. But I never meant to kill anyone. That was far outta my hands."

"You've had your powers all your life!" Eren cried, tears stinging his eyes. "You expect me to believe you just lost control out of nowhere?"

"It was my birthday," Ymir said, folding her arms across her chest. Her expression was solemn, and suddenly Eren saw that she truly was identical to the girl in the photograph. "I was… _mierda_… ninety three? Something like that." Ymir ran her fingers through her choppy dark hair, and she eyed Eren curiously. Because Eren was giving her the most incredulous look. "I know you wanna know. So sit down. I'm gonna tell you everything."

And Eren couldn't refuse. He sat down on Connie's sofa, glowering at Ymir as she stood, wearing too-tight leggings and a long sleeved crop top that bared her belly button, showing the freckles that did indeed crawl all across her body. She was picking at the nail polish on her nails, bobbing her head as if to an imaginary song.

"Right," she said. "Right, so we'll start with when I was born. 1913." She paused to look at them. No one spoke. Eren couldn't find it in him to question her. He simply glared ever more, his nostrils flaring. He was surprised at himself, really. He knew deep down he wasn't being fair to Ymir, but he often let his temper run rampant. Maybe it was better if he controlled himself. "I'm a hundred years old. Ain't that somethin'?"

"How are you still alive, exactly…?" Jean asked weakly.

Ymir grinned. "Cryogenics!" She laughed, though it was a coarse and bitter laugh, and she shrugged. "I was the first successful attempt at creating a superhuman. Dandy, right?" She posed, though she didn't seem to be exactly into this act of glory. She slumped after a few moments of them simply staring. "Right… so, they experimented on me when I was a still a fetus." She scratched her head, her hollow eyes turning up toward the ceiling. "I was named Ilse from the very start. I'll tell you why at the end of my story, it's pretty swell." She smiled in the most strained way possible, her eyes only dimming as she laughed. "In the worst way possible."

"You were the institute's first?" Eren asked, his voice clipped and his eyes narrowed. She nodded.

"I was an incredible success," she continued, wandering around the room, her bare feet scuffing against the carpet. "The scientists doted on me. I was treated like a princess. Pampered, educated, trained. I knew how to control my powers, mostly, and how to act around people who I could hurt. Everything was absolutely perfect…" She stared at the opposite wall, her body freezing in place. "'Til my mother was sent away."

"Why would they do that?" Jean blurted.

"I was too attached," she said flatly. "I loved her more than I loved the people who were responsible for my creation. She named me Ymir, and that is the name I identified with, not Ilse. She taught me Spanish, because that was her first language, and she made me feel normal." She shook her head. "They didn't want me to be normal. They wanted me to be Ilse."

"That's a little extreme," Jean muttered.

"Yes," Ymir agreed, "I thought so too. But I was a good girl. I never made a fuss. So, when my mother left, well, I simply went on with my sheltered life. Enjoyed the company I had. Eventually my mother married and had other children, which gives us the positively gay presence of Constantino over there."

"You keep using that word," Connie said weakly. "It's doesn't mean that anymore. Please stop."

"_Never_," she replied. She was smiling then, and Eren realized this was a real smile. It lit up her dark face, giving her an unnatural look. Her face had always been pretty, but when she smiled it was unearthly. Ymir was just plain _weird_. "But, yeah. He's my great nephew, or something of that sort. I am so proud."

"Shut up," Connie sighed, rubbing his temples. "You said you'd explain why the experiments happened, and who's behind them."

"I did, didn't I?" She laughed again, and Eren grimaced. She laughed too much, it seemed. He wondered if she just forced herself to laugh because it seemed like the best thing to do to get on people's nerves. "I'll get to that. I was able to go out more often after my mother was sent away, which was nice, I suppose, but very little consolation. The facility I was raised in was called Sina, I believe. It was in Massachusetts. Got to experience the start of what you millennials call the "roaring twenties". That was interesting enough." She licked her lips, and looked around with an anxious expression. "Does anyone feel…?"

"What?" Eren asked, unable to keep his contempt from his voice. She blinked, and then shook her head slowly.

"Nothing…" She frowned. "Um… anyway… I ended up getting tuberculosis. Ninety years ago. Instead of letting me die, or letting the disease worsen, I was put into a cryogenic sleep, and woken up every year on my birthday. I had no clue there was a legitimate treatment and cure for it. So I went on with my sad little life, one day out of the year at a time. Until I woke up in your facility, the one in Oklahoma. Rose."

"That's not right," Eren blurted. "We were in Pennsylvania, not Oklahoma."

"And it was called Maria, wasn't it?" Jean asked. He sounded as confused as Eren felt. So, utterly.

"At this point in time, the active facility was Rose." Ymir was looking even more anxious now, her eyes darting around, and arms folding protectively around her. "I'd always thought they'd stopped experimenting after me, but I was an imperfection. They wanted something better. So they tried again. It was hard to replicate, though, I think. Too many variables. I don't know the details of your experimentations. All I know is that there was a boy who didn't know how to control his power, and he wanted out. He felt as though I was the easiest host. And, for a little while, I was."

"Wait…" Connie said. His eyes were widening. "You never told me this part."

"I don't think to tell everything at once," Ymir said, rolling her eyes. "Sorry. It's a bit difficult to sort out the important information— also, I enjoy my privacy." Her nose scrunched in distaste, and her eyes roved around the room. "Did you bring Armin with you?"

"No," Eren said, feeling defensive. "Why?"

"It just… feels…" Ymir sighed. "Okay, not important. The point of this is that your mother's death was an accident. Bertl possessed me, and ran off with my body."

"Bullshit," Eren said impulsively, though his heart was thundering in his chest.

"It's true," she said. She studied him, her dark eyes narrowing as she covered her midriff with her crossed arms. "He'd find it difficult to possess me now, but then it was probably easy. I was very weak, and I'd been dying for ninety years. Physically, a ten year old girl with tuberculosis was not likely to fend off a parasitic soul latching onto her. So, that's what happened."

Eren tried to object, to find some flaw in her story, but he remembered how strange she had been that day. He remembered her constant apologizing, the flickering between demeanors, the instability of her. It had been because… there had been two souls inside her? Eren didn't want to believe it.

"Are you telling me," Eren said quietly, "that it was Bertholdt's fault?"

"I tell him it is," Ymir said. Eren stared at her, and he felt as though he was going to puke or scream. She quickly looked away, shaking her head furiously. "It's not, though. It was an accident. I tried to control my power, and he tried to get out of my body, but neither of us could do it. It was an awful mistake. We should never have been at your house, but the facility, Rose, it wasn't far from your home, and Bertl was desperate, and your mother was too kind to turn us away. I'm… sorry, Eren."

"That doesn't help," he said, his voice hoarse and his mouth dry. "She's still dead because of you."

"And you didn't remember worth a damn 'til recently," Ymir said in a low, dull tone. "I wonder why that is."

"What d'ya mean?" Eren asked, jumping to his feet. Petra and Jean were on their feet too, while Connie simply stared. He was sitting on the floor, his brow furrowed. "Do you know why all our memories are so messed up?"

"Of course I do!" Ymir looked at them, an eyebrow quirking up in disbelief. "You don't see it, do you? You guys have been messed with so badly, you probably won't ever see it, not unless someone shows you."

"What are you talking about?" he gasped, lurching forward. Jean grabbed him by the arm to hold him back, and his fingers froze just inches from Ymir's throat. She didn't even budge. "You bitch! You know way more than you're tellin' us!"

"Yes!" she snapped back, her lips curling back. "Yes, I do! And if you'd kindly back off, I'll be obliged to tell you everythin' I know."

"Sit down, Eren," Jean hissed into his ear as Eren struggled. "She's not doing any harm."

"Yeah, c'mon, Eren," Connie said. He finally rose to his feet, blinking between them. "We've gotta hear this."

Eren shrugged Jean off, backing away from Ymir and glowering at her. She stared right back, and offered up her arms, shrugging offhandedly. "Sorry, _chico_," she said. "Sadly, I am not the kind of evil you are looking for. Of course, I am plenty awful shitty, I'll hand you that one, but I've never been particularly murderous, y'know? Anyways, where…" She trailed off, her eyes darting wildly around the room, and she whirled around very fast. She stood for a moment, frozen and place, and Eren could see her fingers shaking. When she spoke again, her voice was trembling. "You didn't come alone."

"What?" Jean blurted, his nose wrinkling.

Ymir was now turning about in place, her eyes searching the room, her lips parting in confusion. And then, finally, her eyes fell upon Petra. There was a moment where her eyes seemed to catch fire, and her face transformed in terror. "Move. Petra, move!"

Petra moved, but not before the rug she was standing on caught flame. Eren saw it, a spark ignite from nowhere and catch upon the fibers of the rug. He lurched forward to grab Petra as she backed into a wall, her mouth falling open, but the scent of gasoline hit his nose, and he listened to the splatter of it as it hit the carpet and the couches, manifesting from nothing as it splashed across the room.

"Kerosene?" Ymir spat. "_Really_?"

All at once the room was engulfed in flames.

Eren couldn't see a thing as he coughed and blinked, fire licking up his legs, and he realized quickly what was happening, and he grabbed Jean, the first person he laid hands on, yanking him by his jacket and flinging himself at the window closest to them. He dragged Jean with him, listening to him scream in shock as Eren's body shattered the window, and they hurdled through open air with smoke and glass dancing around them, writhing and glittering, and Eren curled his body so he would be the one to hit the ground. The impact was sudden, and it smashed his shoulder, immediately dislocating it, and he winced in shock and pain as his ankles burned and his eyes stung and his lungs filled with noxious fumes. He shoved Jean off of him, and they both coughed feebly, though Eren had trouble lifting his hands to his mouth to cover his.

"Shit!" Jean gasped, yanking off his jacket and patting out the fire that licked at Eren's feet. It guttered out with a cough, and Eren squeezed his eyes shut, feeling his skin struggle to regrow. It was blistered, but he'd be fine in a few moments. He sat up, and Jean stared at him incredulously. "Dude, what the fuck did you save me for?"

"You were the closest," Eren rasped, his voice breaking off into another throaty cough. He pressed his hands to his dislocated shoulder, and he tucked his elbow, grimacing as he adjusted himself. With a little bit of pressure he was able to set his arm back into place with a meager little _pop_. And, of course, a great wave of blinding pain that settled over him, washing him in nausea. Eren doubled over onto his hands and knees, his body buckling as he vomited into the grass, coughing as the fluid was expelled from his lips, and it burnt his nose, the scent of gasoline and bile and smoke and sizzling flesh. This was all so familiar. He puked some more, the scent of lilacs too heavy for him to bear.

"Oh, fuck." Jean's voice floated above him as he continued to spill his stomach into the grass, digging up blades by the roots as he coughed and spluttered, wheezing into the dirt. "Oh my god, are you okay?"

"No!" Eren rasped through the churning of vomit that burst through his lips, splattering against darkened grass. After a minute it seemed to stop, and he all but collapsed, still coughing up the smoke from his lungs. Jean was standing over him, looking genuinely concerned, and Eren grimaced at the sight of him. "Did it _look_ like I was okay, cumstain?"

Jean stared at him blankly, and then straightened up. "They're still in there," he said quietly.

Eren let himself sit for a moment in the frigid autumn night, listening to the sound of flames roaring and feet clapping and his own ragged breaths as he tried to settle himself. His feet had healed by now, it was time he faced his fear. He wiped his mouth and his chin, bile and sick still clinging to his mouth even after he scrubbed at it. He pushed himself shakily up to his feet, and stumbled toward the door, his heart racing frantically.

Before he could reach the door, however, it burst open.

Connie was suddenly at their side, his coughs crashing upon the air, knife-like and startling as he hunched over, his entire frame crumpling. In the doorway, Ymir was holding onto a dark bundle, and as Eren squinted through the smoke, he saw a streak of strawberry hair, and then the flow of Petra's skirt, and he exhaled in relief.

"She's hurt!" Ymir offered out Petra's limp body, and Eren stumbled over himself to get up to Connie's stoop, his arms outstretched. He took Petra from Ymir, carefully cradling her head, and seeing that one of her legs was completely mangled, blackened flesh and peeking white bone against angry red welts. The smell was almost as bad as the sight of the oozing flesh, like a pig on a spit turning over a campfire, the scent of sizzling, blistering meat.

"I'm going to get rid of the fire," Ymir said, turning away from Eren. "Don't blame this one on me, okay?"

Eren could only nod mutely as she disappeared back into the yellow and red glow of the house's interior. He stood for a moment, utterly shocked, before backing down the steps and blinking dazedly. There was now a crowd of costumed people forming around the house, and they were screaming, and his head was abuzz. Connie was suddenly at Eren's side, pressing his hand to his shoulder.

"Give her to me," he said. His voice was so coarse it sounded like it sliced through his throat. "I can get her to the hospital quicker than anything else."

"Okay," Eren choked. "But— your identity…"

Connie rolled his eyes and turned away, marching toward the crowd of Halloween goers and snatching a mask right off a kid's face. It was an Iron Man mask, and Connie easily latched it over his bald head. "Hey, bud," he said as the boy cried out. "I gotta borrow this, but I swear I'll give it back!"

Then he was back at Eren's side, prying Petra from his arms, and taking one last longing look at his house before taking a stride and suddenly disappearing into a streaking blur and a gust of wind. Eren coughed, tears streaming against his cheeks as he blinked through the noxious screen of smoke, the haze causing him to feel nauseous again. The light from inside the windows had dimmed considerably, and it was almost as if there was nothing in the house now but darkness, and the remnants of smoldering carper. The smoke was even thicker now.

Eren stood barefoot in Connie's front lawn, his mind reeling back. The fire had not been Ymir's fault. He knew that for certain. He'd seen the spark, seen it generated out of thin air, and he'd smelt the gasoline without seeing where it had come from. Someone… invisible?

_Armin?_ Eren thought for a moment, terror striking hard and fast into his heart, nearly consuming him in one blinking, blazing second.

_No_, he thought then. _Never_.

"It looks like she got all the fire out," Jean said, squinting into the thick miasma of smoke that poured from the busted window. "You wanna check it out?"

Eren nodded mutely before he realized Jean probably could barely see him. "Yeah," he said. "Okay."

They treaded carefully up the steps of the porch, ignoring the shouts of the crowd behind them, and they slipped into the house. Of course the entire living room was a blackened husk of what it had been only five minutes ago. The couches were skeletons, the table was ash, and the floor was streak after streak of scorch marks and holes. Eren coughed, tears flooding into his eyes as he batted at the smoke, his throat hoarse from all the screaming and the coughing and the puking. Jean coughed alongside him, no better.

"Ymir?" Eren called in a small, strangled voice.

The only sound in reply was the distant wail of sirens, and the not quite distant whoosh of a screen door slamming.

* * *

_ha ha, miss me? sorry for the semi-hiatus, i got distracted by tokyo ghoul and fire emblem: awakening. no, really. that's all i did for two weeks._

_explanations! and, some more questions. heh. what are you gonna do?_


	25. history, the teacher of life

**historia vitae magistra**

**washington d.c.**

_a.d. iv non. nov., 2766 a.u.c._

The sound of the heart monitor was steady and familiar. _Beep-beep-beep_. Hello, old friend. Found a different host? Good. _I'll never need you again_, Historia thought, watching the lines of Levi's heartbeat roll endlessly into peaks and dips.

He was awake, his deeply set blue eyes glowering miserably ahead of him. It was very early on a Saturday morning, streams of white light trailing in through the window. The television was on, singing some sad song of terrible news somewhere, someplace, but not here. Here there was good news. For one thing, Levi was going to be fine. And aside from his initial grumpiness, he didn't seem all that traumatized from his experience. His aura was nice and bright, gold as the bursting sunshine that trickled through the window glass.

There was also the factor of Mikasa being unwilling to leave his side.

"Am I getting outta here today, or what?" Levi asked, his eyes never trailing from the television. Eren was still slumbering on a bench outside the room, soot still clinging to his face and ash whitening his hair. He'd gone to the hospital immediately upon returning home from his mission, and had not showered in two days, causing him to look homeless. Mikasa had confided that she'd had to fend off multiple members of the hospital staff who had tried to wake him and kick him out during the night.

"If all goes well," Mikasa said, her eyes following Levi's gaze. "Though I think you should stay a few more nights."

"Eat shit," Levi said dully.

"Your condition might be better," Armin said from the corner of the room, "but you're honestly lucky to be alive. The first time you were stabbed there, there was some torn tissue, but it wasn't enough to cause any huge problems. The second time got your lower intestines."

"Yeah," Levi said, his eyes falling sharply upon Armin's pallid face. "I got that."

Armin had decisively positioned himself as far away from Levi as possible while staying inside the room. Historia as leaning against the wall beside the door, keeping an eye out for Erwin. He'd gone with Hange to get food. Historia tugged at her thigh highs, glancing at Armin as the boy sighed, his shoulders slumping. _He's so pasty looking_, she thought. She wondered if he'd puke.

"You're lucky the surgery was hasty and successful," Armin said quietly, "that's all."

"I wasn't gonna die," Levi said stiffly. "I can take a stabbing or two. The real nasty shit here is Mikasa's arm."

Mikasa's arm had been set in a cast, and was now in a sling around her neck. As far as Historia knew, the break wasn't too bad. Once they got home she'd be able to heal it easily. Levi had been the one with a weak aura, all flickery and dulling when she'd first entered the room post-surgery. Thankfully all she needed to do was some miniscule tweaking to make him feel a thousand times better.

"I'll heal you both when we get back," Historia said.

Levi eyed her warily, the first time he had really looked at her that morning. "You have to heal Petra too," he said darkly.

"I will," Historia swore. "But I can't do anything if they've decided to amputate her leg."

His nostrils flared in response, and he sat up straighter, looking pointedly at Armin. "What the fuck is so important that you've gotta leave at the crack ass of dawn?" he snapped.

"I know you're angry," Armin said softly, "but Petra's going to be fine. Eren wouldn't have left her if she weren't doing okay. Trust me. He's not frightened for Petra. He's more relieved than anything. I'm sure they're doing skin grafts on her, if that makes you feel better."

"It doesn't," Levi stated.

Armin grimaced, and glanced at Historia. They watched each other for a moment or so, and she turned away. She met Mikasa's eye instead, noting how the girl seemed to be paying more and more attention to her. Historia wasn't sure how she felt about that, if she felt anything. In truth, she was feeling rather apathetic as of late.

"After I heal you…" Historia said quietly.

Levi glanced at her. She felt herself freezing up under his harsh gaze, her lips parting and smacking closed, her teeth gnashing against her skin. She averted her eyes, her hands growing clammy with sweat. Levi made her nervous. He had a gaze that was plainly unsettling, as though he could sense the weakness in her, the odd little desire to twist an aura ever so slightly, and turn everything pretty, deathly pale. She could taste the metallic tang of silver on her tongue, feel the tingling bursts of shuddering, failing light.

"What?" Levi rested his head back against his propped up pillow. "Spit it out."

Historia stared at him, feeling that she might not be able to contain the urge to pull a little on that dusty golden light, and drink in the energy as it dulled and burst apart into shattering silvery streams. She could make it so. It'd be too easy. Like lifting up her pinky. Levi wouldn't stand a chance.

"I…" Historia uttered, her voice wavering. She tilted her head, watching the gold swirl around Levi's childlike face, and she watched the particles dart away from him and move cautiously toward her, tickling her cheeks as they reflected inside her eyes, burning brightly and growing brighter and brighter as she swayed, power pulsating as she hesitantly rose her hand, her heart thudding in her chest, and silver on her mind and melting hotly on her tongue. Armin was suddenly at her side, and she was snapped from her reverie as he steadied her.

"Levi," Mikasa said sharply. "Stop scaring her."

"I didn't do anything," he said dully.

"I…" Historia found herself leaning against Armin for support. She stared at Levi's aura, golden and alive, and she banished it, biting her lip and forcing it away form her sight with a flick of her wrist. It was much easier to breathe without golden light clouding her every thought. "What was I…?"

"After you heal us," Levi reminded. He sounded bored, and irritated, and she pulled away from Armin. She liked him well enough. He was kind to her, but he didn't tell her the truth. He didn't see what was underneath her innocent face. He wasn't Ymir, no matter how desperately she wished him to be, because she needed to be told that she had no right to steal life from others. She needed the comfort of Ymir's presence, her words, her touch, anything. Armin was half a stranger.

She didn't feel obligated to be anything to him because she was his sister. Unlike him, of course, for she knew he wanted to be a brother to her if it was a possible feat. She wasn't sure if she wanted it, though. She could probably use the support, but Armin was in need of support as well. And he couldn't be saved by her. At least with Ymir, she could be selfish, and keep her alive as long as she wanted. With Armin, he was so fragile, so mortal, and that made it so hard to get attached to him.

_If I could manipulate you_, she thought, wishing he could hear her thoughts, _I'd love you for it_.

"Oh," she said weakly, shoving that terrible thought from her brain. "Right. After I heal you, will you go after Ymir?"

Mikasa turned to Levi. It seemed she was curious as well. And Historia was left to ponder over her own humanity. Why was it so hard to connect to people? She loved to be loved, but she had trouble reciprocating. And she wanted to love Armin. She liked the attention he gave her, even now, when she was just boring old Historia, who was so apathetic and so dull all the time. But she didn't know if she could. He was a glass figurine in an army of clay soldiers. She couldn't touch him, couldn't hold him still, and couldn't stop him from shattering.

"If we have a lead on where she went," Levi said, "sure. But don't waste your breath. Erwin's dumb power is bullshit. And I honestly wouldn't even know where to begin to track her."

_I would_, she thought, turning her eyes to the window. Shafts of light were blinking in and out, golden and silver and then, suddenly, a blinding white. She chewed on her bottom lip, considering all the places Ymir might go. The institute had always been their initial meeting place, but there were others. Could Ymir be somewhere easy for Historia to find? But what would she even do if she found her?

Historia didn't want to run away. She liked having a home. Even if it meant Ymir wasn't a part of it.

_I should go find her_, she thought. _I don't know why I'm debating it. Ymir's more important, I should go find her, and follow her wherever she wants to go_.

But Historia knew it wasn't about what Ymir wanted. It was about what she wanted. And she wanted a home. With people. She didn't want to run away and pretend anymore. She just wanted to stop with all this nonsense, and feel something. Anything. With Ymir it was always touch and go. Either Historia felt something, or she felt empty. Now it was always empty.

But, sometimes, she found that she wasn't so empty as she thought. Sometimes she cared. She didn't understand it, but it got under her skin. How could she care one minute, and be utterly empty the next? How could she want to cry, and then moments later find nothing in the world worth being sad about? How could concern burn her chest and churn up in her throat, when she didn't want to be Armin's sister? When she knew that Levi didn't trust her? When she'd hardly even spoken to Eren, and never even met Petra?

Emptiness was a cold, familiar feeling. But it was something.

"It might be easier to track Bertholdt and Reiner," Armin offered.

Ah. Yes. Bertholdt and Reiner.

The previous day they had gotten a phone call from Eren. It was a little unfortunate that she and Armin had been the only ones present at the time. Erwin had been at the hospital with Levi and Mikasa, which is what had put off their trip to DC. Armin had answered the phone, while Historia sat on the floor of the living room, still in her uniform, and staring blankly at the television screen as Bloody Face appeared. She and Armin had been systematically switching back and forth between Hannibal and American Horror Story, grading them on their horror merit. Only half an hour before Bertholdt had walked in, staring at the screen confusedly before quickly pivoting and dashing out of the room. Historia paid him no mind. Armin had wondered aloud if he should apologize. Historia had asked him what for. And Armin had told her he didn't know. He just felt bad. _Maybe we're more alike than I thought_, she recalled.

Armin had answered the phone, and Historia had watched some poor suckers get slaughtered. She thought about their auras, what it'd take to make them all better, thought about the stitching of particles with the dance of her fingers, thought about how tedious that'd be, and she wondered if she'd be able to actually do it if the injuries were so terrible. She wondered if she could steal an aura fast enough to save someone else's life. She wondered if she'd ever need to.

She had felt a presence in the room long before Reiner's hands had crashed upon her shoulders.

"Boo!" he cried in her ear. She blinked rapidly, and tore her gaze from the television. He was grinning at her. "Did I scare you?"

"Um…" She let her eyes drift back to the screen, her attention flickering from Reiner to the fictional asylum. "No…?"

Reiner looked at her, and his eyes darted away. "Oh," he said. He lifted his hands off her shoulders, and dropped against the couch behind her. After a little while of watching, he spoke again. "You watch some pretty messed up stuff, wow."

"I like horror stuff," she had said quietly.

"Wow," he'd repeated himself, "shit. Can I ask why?"

"I… need a reason?"

"Nah." Reiner smiled at her. She'd glanced at him, her eyebrows furrowing. "Just curious."

"It's exciting," she'd said blandly. "And scary, sometimes, I guess."

"Only sometimes?"

Historia had shrugged, not really understanding where his interest came from. If Ymir had still been around, she probably would have skulked out of whatever hole she'd been hiding in and appeared to fend Reiner off, even sitting through Historia's shows in order to do so. Ymir didn't like horror. She was a big weenie.

She had not heard Armin's conversation over the sounds of the television's hum, so when Armin reentered the room, his cell phone pressed to his chest, she had not assumed there was anything wrong. Then he'd called out to her in his soft little voice, a voice that she was noticing had some similarities to her own.

"Historia, can you pause it? Hange wants to talk with you."

She had blinked up at him confusedly, but paused the show all the same. She rose to her feet, her white knee highs allowing her to tread silently across the room. "Why?" she asked, frowning at the phone in his hands.

"They want to ask you some things about Ymir," Armin said with a shrug, his eyes never leaving her face. She met his gaze, feeling that there was something peculiar about it. But Armin was such a peculiar person, perhaps she was just imagining it.

"Ymir," she'd repeated, the name warm against her tongue. She nodded quickly, reaching out her hand for the phone. Instead, Armin took her hand in his own and pulled her from the room. She followed him wordlessly as he dragged her down a hall, and then quickly swerved, pulling her into the bathroom and closing the door behind him, letting go of her hand only to lock it. He took a few stride backwards until his shoulder bumped against hers, and he glanced down at her. He looked a little horror-stricken.

_I must be in a horror movie_, Historia had thought, her gut twisting.

"What's going on?" she'd whispered as he ushered her away from the door. He was peering at the lone window, his expression a little distraught. He'd quickly typed something on his phone, and turned the screen to her. In the dying glow of the afternoon, she saw the words like little blocks assembled by a dumb little toddler.

_Bert &amp; reiner are traitors_

Her mouth had gone dry, and she shook her head, throwing a look at the door. "How do you know?" she murmured, backing further away as a precaution.

"Eren," he whispered back, and then he paused, grimacing. He pointed to his head, tapping his temple. So he'd read their minds, then. Great.

"What do we do?" She had been unable to process her next move. But Armin, Armin was just so smart, he had to know what to do next.

Armin shook his head. His eyes were darting wildly around the room, and she watched him, with his pallid face and shaky frame. He'd licked his lips, running his trembling fingers through his hair. His glasses had been askew. "Reiner is impervious," Armin whispered.

"Not to me," Historia had replied, her eyes traveling to the door. Armin had given her a quizzical look, but had said nothing in response.

"He isn't our problem." Armin had flung open the window, sticking his head out as a gust of crisp autumn wind came barreling at them. He paused, his eyes flashing to the door. "Pretend you're talking to Hange."

"What?"

Armin had shoved his phone into her hands, and she stared at it numbly. She could hear footsteps over the soft snarl of wind. She pressed the phone to her ear, and whirled away from Armin, pacing back and forth as Armin stuck half his body out the window. "Ymir sticks to larger cities," she'd found herself saying, eying Armin's back. "You should try and check shelters. She's not really big on pride, so she'll take whatever charity she can get."

Armin threw her a thumbs up, but she didn't know if that was an all-clear signal or a that'll work signal. So she just kept talking, watching Armin as he ducked back into the bathroom. "Try Chicago," she had said. "Ymir hasn't been there in a while. Or Detroit. Or Boston. Oh, or Salem!"

"That was Reiner," Armin had said. "Not our problem. Our main concern is Bertholdt."

"They know we're in here," she whispered.

"They knew the whole time," he'd said calmly. "We can't hide it. But this isn't weird for us, apparently. Apparently we run off like this all the time."

She hadn't noticed that. "What are we supposed to do?"

"We could act like we don't know," he said casually. The room was frigid now, and wind whipped against the shower curtain. "But even when Erwin comes home, he won't be much of a help. He's a pacifist, and an extra body that we can't harm."

"Could we…?" Historia had been trying very hard to think of a solution. "Couldn't we… talk to them…?"

"Yes, of course we could," Armin had said softly, raising his glassy eyes to hers. "But if worse comes to worst, we won't be able to fight."

She'd slumped, and shuddered in the great gust of frigid wind that blew toward her. She realized that he was still trying to figure out how to handle this situation, which was startling to her, because he was the smart one. "We could," she whispered. "We… might stand a chance…"

"I'm not a fighter," Armin told her somberly. "And… even if I got a hold of one of them… I don't think my body could handle that kind of strain right now."

"Then I'll fight," she declared, striding to the closet and sliding the door open. There was a shelf inside it with some towels, and below that shelf was another with cleaning supplies. She'd scanned the contents of it, her eyes falling upon a broom. She recalled feeling suddenly very dizzy, and a little sick to her stomach, thoughts halting as she stared into the closet, her entire body frozen momentarily. Her muscles felt stiff. Unmoving. She felt her heart thunder in her chest, and she turned her face to Armin's. He'd begun to speak to her, and she only heard the latter half of his sentence.

"— never really explained the full extent of your power." He wandered to the window, casting his hand outside for a moment, his eyes dazed. "I have my theories, of course, but they're just that. Theories. Have you ever tried broadening your reach on auras, or pushing your grip on them?"

"I…" she uttered, her voice drifting uncertainly as it left her lips. Her stomach clenched in fear. "No. No, not… really."

She'd watched her knuckles as she closed her fist around the broom handle, lifting it from the closet carefully. It was nearly taller than her. She listened to his footfalls, and she turned to face him. His back had been turned to her. And then, as though struck by an epiphany, he whirled to face her, his eyes flashing wide as the wooden handle came crashing down upon his shoulder, forcing him to the ground with a mighty _smack_. His forehead smashed against the corner of the tub. She'd turned away before she could see the damage, her heart beating in her throat and tears stinging her eyes. She'd unlocked the door and treaded quietly out into the hall.

"Reiner," she called, wobbly as she held onto the walls. She was screaming in her head. "Reiner!"

He'd appeared in the hallway, his face stricken with confusion. "Historia?" He moved closer to her, his shadow bulky and his eyes darting. "Are you… guys okay? I heard a—"

"Reiner, we have to go," she gasped, pressing her hand to her head. Tears spilt onto her cheeks, and her throat was dry as she spat words into the air desperately. "We have to go right now. Get my body."

"_Bertl_?" Reiner had clearly been taken aback. Later, Historia had described his confusion carefully. She had told them the truth. Reiner and Bertholdt hadn't initially meant any harm. "Did you take Historia's body? _Without her permission_?"

Inside her head, she was screaming so loudly that she could feel the headache pounding viciously at Bertholdt's mind. She could feel his aura intermingling with hers, and it tasted acidic, and looked to her like a shade of gray shadowing her vision.

"I… I know, I know!" Bertholdt made her voice sound reedy and thin, not like the sweet little lilt she had spent years perfecting. "I panicked! But we have to go, okay? We don't have time to argue!"

"What did you do?" Reiner had sounded a little horrified. Bertholdt had not spoken a reply, and her lips trembled pitifully. _You're so weak_, she thought to Bertholdt, causing her body to buckle in shock. He muffled a sob against her hands.

"I'm sorry," he'd mumbled. "I— I didn't— this isn't—"

Historia had taken the intermingling particles of his aura and torn them apart from her own. The sound was like glass shattering against a rusty pipe, a cacophony of shrill blasts booming inside her head, a glass warfront raging in her head, bursting apart in a glorified shower of glass and dirt, glass bombs and glass grenades and glass bullets showering both their minds, and he screamed as she screamed, golden light bouncing off her eyes and blooming outward from her mind into existence and bursting as he was forced from her head and from her heart and from her body. She'd crumpled to the ground, her legs giving out upon the rush of her limbs returning to her, and she shook against the cold tile, her body wracking with uncontrollable sobs. She still didn't know if she'd been crying out of her own pain, or out of Bertholdt's.

"Historia…" Reiner had tried to touch her, but she skittered away from him, her limbs pushing her as far as possible from his extended fingers.

"D-d-don't touch me," she'd stammered, wiping furiously at her face. She had struggled to her feet and all but thrown herself into the bathroom, skidding onto her knees beside Armin's bleeding body. He was awake, on his hands in knees and staring at the puddle of blood he'd left upon the pallid tile. His hair was damp and pink from lying in it.

"Armin, it wasn't me," she blurted, her hands falling to her knees. He'd nodded mutely, his dazed eyes squinted at her in confusion. His glasses were half lying in blood.

"I…" he'd murmured, his gaze unfocused. "I… know, I…" He raised his eyes to Reiner, who had appeared in the doorway. His expression changed in a flash, his eyes hardening as he straightened up, blood dripping against his forehead, rivulets dragging down the concave of his nose, and he squinted. The door slammed shut, and the lock _clicked_.

Well, in the end it turned out that Armin had known all along that Bertholdt would skin Historia. He apologized for not telling her, but he admitted that he couldn't think much into it lest Bertholdt hear. Apparently Bertholdt could very easily access Armin's mind if he left it open enough, so Armin didn't allow himself to know important details about things that could potentially be harmful. Historia had been mostly concerned with his forehead, which she'd stitched up for him without a problem.

"You should get this checked out," She'd said as she smoothed back his hair to be certain the stitches were adequate enough. The cut wasn't very deep or long, but it had spilt a lot of blood in a short period of time.

"I wasn't hit that hard," he'd responded. "I'm more concerned for your mental health, actually."

"I'm not the one having hallucinations," she had retorted in a dull, quiet voice.

"Heh." He'd smiled at that, which had been a great relief. "Touchè."

Basically, they'd handled the situation pretty poorly.

Armin had apologized to Erwin profusely for it.

Historia had refrained from asking Erwin to force Armin into a CAT scan. No one knew about the stitches hidden under his golden hair, and no one knew how much blood he'd lost, and no one knew why he looked so dazed and unfocused. He almost definitely had a concussion.

Bertholdt and Reiner had been gone within minutes. Armin told them all what he knew from their minds. He'd been suspicious for a few weeks, but he didn't pry enough to know the details. Levi had, of coursed, chewed him out for that. Erwin had, in turn, scolded Levi, and then pulled Armin aside to speak to him in private. Historia felt like an outsider. Likely because she was.

They also knew that Bertholdt and Reiner weren't murderous, unlike Annie. While they were definitely dangerous (and unstable), they had left Armin and Historia alive in order to escape when they probably could have easily killed them. Or, at least, attempted to. Historia didn't think she'd let them get far enough to harm her or Armin anymore than they had already.

Now it made sense to Historia why Ymir had always picked on Bertholdt.

_But there's so much that doesn't make sense_, she thought. _Like why they ran so fast. Did they figure out I could kill them?_

Would she have been able to kill them? She didn't want to kill anyone, especially not her friends.

This was all so confusing.

"We'll deal with the Reiner and Bertholdt bullshit when you get back," Levi said. He'd settled back against his pillow, scowling up at the ceiling.

"When will you be back?" Mikasa asked, turning her face to them. Armin and Historia were standing side by side, staring vacantly ahead. Their empty gazes were similar, of course, but she knew they were different. Her eyes were empty out of apathy. His were empty from the accumulated strain of insomnia, migraines, a concussion, and constant waves of unrestrained empathy and telepathy. She counted herself lucky. She got the power that made her body feel constantly positive, never lacking in any area. She always had energy, and always felt normal, and never got sick, and never had to worry about something trivial like a concussion. Armin's body was so frail, and it made her almost angry, because this was something she could so easily _fix_.

_If I knew I could keep him around forever_, she thought, her eyes moving cautiously to his face, _would I love him then?_

"By tonight, hopefully," Armin said.

And when Erwin returned, they were off.

It was a three or four hour drive, and Historia spent most of it sleeping. She laid down in the back seat, listening to Armin and Erwin speak in their low tones, nothing in particular catching her interest, and she curled up into a ball and slept. She dreamt of Ymir. Fire eyes, and a laughing mouth, and starry freckles dancing like golden dust against her bronze skin. Ymir could be forever. It was safe to love Ymir. Safe and warm and stable.

Armin was none of that.

In her dream, Armin was sitting on a little rock in the middle of a grand stretch of water, a sunset licking up and down its bluish black waterscape, burning it up like it was brimming with oilslicks. There was no wind here, but there were stars twinkling against the steadily darkened sky, reflecting madly on the bluish, blackish, fire-stained sea, and sending freckles along its watery surface.

"You're selfish," he told her.

"I know," she replied. "That's no secret."

"No," he said. "But don't you ever get sick of your own awfulness?"

"All the time," she said. She was standing beside him, her bare toes wiggling against the crags and dips in the rock's black face, her feet barely finding traction on the wet stone, barnacles scraping against her heels as she attempted to gain some semblance of balance. "I'm sick to death of me. I wish everyone else was too."

"No you don't." Armin pulled his knees to his chest, embracing them in that childish way that reminded Historia of herself. "You love being loved."

He raised her face to her, and he smiled, his chapped lips going whiter than his ashen face, which grew thinner and thinner in the light of the dying sun, and stars burned inside his hollow eyes, reflecting universes he could never see, and she saw for a moment his resignation as his hollow face deteriorated, withered away as though time had taken a steady increase, and suddenly the world was flying by a year a second, and his entire body crumpled under the weight of year after year after year until suddenly he was only flesh and only bone and only blind eyes and spindly fingers, soft and leathery as they brushed her tiny, youth-soaked hands.

"You should let yourself love a little more," this wizened little man murmured to her. Tears were welling in her eyes, clouds stitching over the bursts of stars

His soft, weathered hands turned to hard, cold bone in half a heartbeat.

She screamed, his face nothing but a smiling skull, and his creaky fingers scraping against her wrist, bare phalanges digging into her flesh, clutching her hands and holding her tight. She lost her footing on the slimy surface of the rock, her toes catching on a slipper crevice, and she fell backwards with her stomach attempting to tear itself from her abdomen as her body crashed into the inky black swell of water surrounding her. It consumed her, sliding through her lips and filling up her lungs, and she saw stars bleeding around her, tails of fire swimming through the streams of black and waves of blue and blankets of bright, scorching white.

She was standing in a graveyard. Two rows of gray headstones, identical in every way, running parallel to each other into infinity. She took a step onto the freshly shorn grass, her bare toes wriggling with relief, and she left a flower on a grave. And then another. She made her way down an aisle of graves that went on and on for an eternity, and every step made her feel heavier, and sicker, and sadder, and suddenly she was crying, silent sobs wracking her tiny frame.

She recognized the names.

Was it her fate to be left alone in this world?

Is this her fate if she chose to let herself love a little more?

Row after row of graves?

Familiar faces withering up right before her eyes, until they were nothing but crumbling bones?

"I can't save you," she cried to grave after grave, "or you, or you, or you, or you, or you…"

She awoke with a jolt, tears and drool causing strands of hair to stick to her face. She wiped slowly at her cheeks, grimacing at the cold taste of saliva and the salty tang of tears. She sat up blearily, squinting at her surroundings. The car was still moving, flat countrysides rolling past her, mountains peaking in the distance. Ahead of her, Armin's small, fleshy hand offered her a sandwich wrapped up in thin white paper. She took it, staring at the spindly quality of his fingers, and the intricate webbing of his vibrant blue veins against the back of his hand.

"Are we nearly there?" she asked in a thick, sleepy voice. Armin nodded.

"Well, mostly," he said, watching her unwrap the sandwich and take a tentative bite. It was a BLT, which suited her fine. She wasn't picky about food, not since she'd lived on the streets with Ymir. When she was younger she had found tomatoes to be unappealing, but now she savored every last bite of the ripened, juicy slices. "Were you having a nightmare?"

She chewed mechanically. She swallowed. She took another bite of her sandwich, and nodded distantly. He nodded back sympathetically. She chewed. She swallowed. "It didn't seem so bad," she said, though she really wasn't sure. Her dreams faded so quickly, she hardly would have known it had been a nightmare if not for her tears and the aching lump that had surfaced inside her throat. It hurt to swallow, but she forced herself to. "The usual."

"You should try to sleep as well, Armin," Erwin advised. "While you have some peace of mind."

"I tried," Armin sighed. "It's a no go. But I'm actually fine, honestly. I'd rather be awake for this. It's so quiet, and… strange, I guess, to feel only my own feelings." He smiled at Erwin wistfully, still leaning over his seat to observe her.

"Oh," she said, lowering her sandwich. "Right. Your mind is free from outside influences, isn't it? How is that?"

"Wonderful," he admitted sheepishly. "I mean— ah, crap, I love living with Eren and Mikasa, but… my mind is so cluttered…"

"I've been looking at apartments in the city," Erwin said. Armin stared at Erwin with wide eyes. "It's your choice, of course, but I feel as though it would be more constructive if you slept in a place that wouldn't feed you someone else's dreams."

"Oh," Armin said quietly. He didn't disagree, she noted. He turned to face her, and she worried that he had maybe heard her thoughts. "Do you want to move out, Historia?"

She found herself puzzled by his question. "Um," she said, her voice a little feeble, "what?"

Armin blinked, and flushed, shooting a glance at Erwin hurriedly. The man sighed, though she saw a hint of a smile curling at his lips in the rearview mirror. "Armin is asking if you'd like to come live with us," Erwin said.

"Oh."

Historia took another bite of her sandwich. She chewed mechanically. She chewed. She chewed. She swallowed, and it hurt so badly as it scratched over the protruding lump that had surfaced inside her throat. It slithered through her chest, scraping against her esophagus. They were watching her. Armin's endless gaze, hollow and deep and clever beyond reason. Erwin's omniscient eyes, alight with some monstrous knowledge, some key point boom of accessibility that was utterly lost on her. They were two birds playing snakes and slithering on the ground beside her, pretending they could be like her, when they were like nothing she could ever dream of consuming.

"Oh?" Erwin sounded amused, and she wanted to burst into tears. "It's alright if you aren't certain, Historia. We aren't in a hurry."

The more time she had to think of it, the more time they had to influence her choice. She didn't particularly want to be influenced by anyone else, but this was her life in a nutshell. Following the paths of other people, people who clearly wanted her affection, and were willing to prod at her until she gave into them. Ymir was just the same. She knew exactly how Historia ticked, and when Historia had become Christa, she had adapted in kind. Ymir could manipulate her into destroying half the world, if she so pleased. Luckily, Ymir was actually too invested in humanity to wish for such terrible things.

Unluckily, Erwin Smith was not quite so innocent.

She took a bite. Chewed. Her mouth was dry, and the bread tasted stale. The bacon was undercooked. She swallowed. "I'd love to live with you," she said in her quiet monotone.

Ahead of her, Armin sighed. He shook his head. "Maybe not right now, Erwin," he said, surprising her. "We're barely settled into Hange's apartment. And there aren't so many people there now. I'll be okay."

"I see," Erwin replied smoothly. Historia stared at him confusedly, and at Armin, and she looked down at her sandwich, tears obscuring her vision. She didn't understand it. She didn't get how they could be so nice to her, knowing that she wasn't the sweet little plastic doll she'd been pretending to be. "Are you not going to eat, Armin?"

"Not really hungry," the boy admitted. "Maybe later."

_You're never hungry_, she thought bitterly at him. She pleaded with the universe to let him hear her. He didn't. She took a bite of her sandwich. She chewed mechanically. She raised her eyes, blinking back tears, and she stared at Armin's face until her turned to her. He looked away quickly, guiltily, as though he almost could hear her accusations, and feel her bitterness. If she could eat, so could he.

"You have to eat," Erwin said. "I can't even remember the last time I actually saw you eat, Armin."

"I ate this morning," Armin said innocently. Historia recalled the crackers he had consumed. Stale saltines. Two of them.

"I didn't see it." Erwin glanced at the review mirror, and Historia met his eye. "Historia, did he eat?"

"Yes," Historia said, though she wasn't sure if two stale crackers counted as eating for a boy as hollow cheeked and emaciated as Armin.

Erwin nodded, though she was certain he didn't believe her. She took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Repeated. He said to Armin, "You should still eat."

"My stomach is feeling a little upset, actually," Armin sighed. "I don't want to risk puking right now."

"Armin—"

"Look, a cow!" Historia cried, pointing out the window. Erwin didn't look, but Armin did, and he laughed. It was a good sound.

None of them talked for the remainder of the ride.

Upon arriving in DC, Erwin basically dropped them off on a curb and told them to have fun blackmailing the president. He had somewhere to be, apparently. As he pulled away, Historia stood for a moment, feeling strangely out of place in her thigh highs, high waisted skirt, and a pink jacket of Ymir's that was far too large on her. The autumn wind was biting at her bare skin, and she held her skirt as a gust threatened to yank it up.

"Do you know where he's going?" she asked as they made their way down a sidewalk.

"Nope," Armin said. "I give him his space, though. I don't like to snoop in his business."

"But you have no idea what he could be doing," she pointed out. "What if he's a traitor too?"

Armin gave her a level stare as they walked, her flat heels clapping against the pavement while the soles of his sneakers scuffed alongside her. "He isn't," he said firmly.

She wanted to ask him how he knew for sure. How could he possibly know? But she trusted his judgment. She could not explain her faith in him, but she could not shake it either.

"Okay," she said quietly. And they kept walking.

It was easy getting in. They followed a group of people through the gates, and then through the front doors, and suddenly they were in the White House. Armin's invisibility was a gift, she realized. They would never be able to pull this off if not for this advantage. Though, technically it wasn't actually invisibility, just a change in perception, so they would have to be careful. Armin also noted they could show up on camera. He didn't know for sure.

She held onto Armin's hand as he led her carefully through the halls, their breaths held every time they passed anyone, his gloved fingers growing moist from her sweaty palms. Armin knew his way around somehow, likely stealing a route from the mind of someone official who could direct them to where her father might be. _Would this place have been mine if I hadn't hit my head?_ she wondered.

They entered the oval office like it was nothing. Historia didn't understand how it could be so simple. All they'd done was walk in. All she'd done was hold Armin's hand. This was far, far too easy. Something had to give. There would be a death, or an arrest, or she would lose herself and kill her father, or someone else, and she just didn't want that.

Her father was talking to someone on speaker. She counted herself lucky he was alone in the office. There had been men stationed at every entrance, of course. Maybe the call was just incredibly important. That made her angry. Actual anger spiked through her, making her feel sickened and electrified. She let go of Armin's hand and marched forward. She pressed her finger to the little red "end call" button, and listened to a voice get cut off midway through a calculated speech on legislation, or something.

He sat in his chair for a moment, looking a little stunned. His brow furrowed, and his mouth parted. Her finger was suddenly visible against the button, and his head snapped to look up at her face, a shout forming on his lips, and he hurled his chair back as he leapt to his feet.

"H—" he choked, steadying his shaky body against his desk, "Historia…?"

"Sit down, papa," she said dully.

He looked absolutely incredulous, his fingers clutching at his chest, and she wondered if he'd have a heart attack. That'd do no good. They needed information, not a dead president. Armin was standing by the door, likely soothing the minds of the secret service men who were clearly about to leap to this man's aid. Armin had this. He was getting better at manipulating minds without speaking.

"Historia," her father repeated, his voice wavering. She frowned at his face, noting the glistening film that lit up his eyes. He reached out, his fingers catching her cheek, and for a moment her stomach flipped, and her heart gave a little stutter of shock, and she thought she was going to cry, her throat constricting painfully. But she didn't. She turned her cheek from his hand, swatting his arm away.

"Sit," she said in a sharper voice, rounding the desk so she could put distance between them. Very slowly, her father picked up his chair from the floor, and sat down. His eyes darted to Armin in confusion.

"I…" He held his head, his lips trembling. "I don't understand… Historia, it's been so long…"

"Yes," she agreed. "And it still hasn't been long enough."

His expression gave away how appalled he was. _How can someone so stupid become president?_ "Historia," he pleaded with her, "you have to understand. What happened was not my fault—"

"I don't care," she said.

"— I didn't know, I thought it was your medicine, I had no idea she switched the bottles, Historia—"

"I really don't care," she sighed, glancing around the oval office. _Nice_, she thought.

"— I tried, I tried to help you, to get you away from the stairs, but you thought I was going to hurt you, and I couldn't understand why—"

"Hey," she said to Armin, "would it be very bad if I punched the president?"

"It would be very, very bad," Armin replied, striding the perimeter of the oval. He was right behind her father, and the man jumped, craning his neck to look at the sickly pale boy. He looked a little terrified as Armin smiled. "Do it."

Historia backhanded her father so hard she was certain her knuckles broke. Pain burst though her hand and spiked up through her wrist and into her forearm, throbbing viciously as she listened to the crack of it, her father struggling to stay in his chair. Armin was massaging his temples, likely still feeding lies to the men outside.

Her father clutched his cheek as he turned his eyes back toward her. She stared at him with her gaze as dead as it could get.

"Look," she said, "I don't care. I don't care if it wasn't actually your fault. I actually already knew that."

He looked so terribly confused, and it almost hurt to see. "Then… then why—?"

"Because you're an asshole?" she offered. "You experimented on children? You're responsible for everything wrong with my life, and the lives of the people I actually kind of care about?" She rolled her eyes upward, feeling emptier and emptier with every word she spoke. "I… don't know, papa. Take your pick."

He took a breath. Armin was creeping along the perimeter again, quiet and flickering in and out of focus. Like a ghost. It was actually a little horrifying. "I don't understand—"

"We're not here for everything you know," Armin said, moving to Historia's side. "We're after something so much simpler."

"I know I'm your biological daughter," she said quietly. Her father said nothing, only stared, with his gaze growing as dead as hers. "I know your wife wasn't my mother."

"How could you possibly know that?" he whispered.

"Because her real mother was mine," Armin said. And then her father's eyes flew very wide, and she knew they had him.

"Armin?" he uttered in awe, blinking confusedly at the boy by her side. "You… you've gotten big…"

"I'm like, five-foot-four," Armin said, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows. "I also don't remember you at all, really. You can blame the institute for that."

Her father groaned, and he rubbed his face. "I could have you two arrested for this," he said.

"Yes, please," Historia said. "Do it."

"Go ahead," Armin chirped. "Arrest your own daughter. The press will be all over that."

"And I'll tell them that you messed up my epilepsy medication," she said, "and stimulated me to the point where I was convinced you were going to kill me."

"So after your six-year-old, epileptic daughter fell down the stairs because of your mistake, you stuck her comatose body in an institution for disabled and dying children who were being _experimented_ on." Armin's voice was soft and moving, the type of voice that made the hairs on your arms stand on end. He used that voice when he was playing with minds. And by the look on her father's ashen face, it was working.

"And then you covered it up," she said. "You said I was away at school. Well, I'm sure everyone will want to know why I am failing four of my classes at the first school I've attended since I was six."

"Not Latin, though," Armin pointed out brightly. "There's that."

"Right, yes." Historia glanced at her crumbling father. "Thanks for teaching me Latin, papa. Really helped me out through life."

"Why are you doing this?" he croaked. His eyes darted fast, moving between them in horror. "What are you gaining?"

"We told you," Armin said. "We want information. About our mother."

"Who she was," Historia said.

"What you did to her," Armin said.

"Where she is now," Historia said.

"What you did to her," Armin repeated in his sweet sounding little voice, innocent of all spite. Yes. They were alike.

"How you met," Historia said.

"What you did to her." Armin stuck a finger between his teeth, and drew off his glove.

"Why you sent her to the institute," she said.

"What you did to her." Armin tucked his glove under his arm. "I'm going to give you thirty seconds to start answering. After thirty seconds, I'm going to forcibly take the answers we want, and then some. We will also publically ask for paternity tests, which will come out positive for Historia for certain no matter my own parentage, and you can't refuse unless you wish to appear guilty. So, start talking. Now."

He was shocked silent. His mouth hung open, his eyes were wider than quarters, his face was so pale it put Armin's sallow skin to shame, and he was shaking in his seat. It was almost exciting to see him squirm like this. They were doing pretty well. She was certain he was terrified of them, because they truly could screw up his entire life. But hadn't he screwed up theirs enough?

"She was a prostitute," he blurted. Historia leaned back, and she glanced at Armin. He had no reaction to this, it seemed. Perhaps he already knew. "She… I…"

"Wow," Historia said.

"Spit it out," Armin sighed.

Her father took a deep, shaky breath, his eyes squeezing shut as he slumped in his chair. Armin was drawing closer to him, and Historia rested her palms against his desk, the heavy sleeves of Ymir's pink jacket threatening to pool over her fists. Her father looked at her then, his expression crumpling in resignation.

"She was an escort," he said in a dry, throaty voice. "It was… she was my… usual… you could say."

"Gross," Armin said softly. Her father glanced at him uncertainly. "Don't stop talking."

He rubbed his face, defeated and jittery, and she thought it funny to see him like this. At their mercy. _We should've gone on the_ _Beta Squad mission_, she thought. _We would have been so much more efficient_.

"The first time she got pregnant, I knew it was by me," he said. "I arranged to adopt the baby, because my wife and I could not have children, and your mother, she… was not fit to raise a child."

"How so?" Armin inquired.

Her father spluttered. "She was a _prostitute_!"

"Prostitutes can make a lot of money," Armin informed him dully. "It honestly just depends on where that money goes. You underestimate sex workers, Mr. President."

He stared at him blankly. He cleared his throat. "She was more than willing to give Historia up," he continued. "I was more than willing to take her. I wanted a child more than anything, and… she was mine…" He glanced at Historia, who felt her stomach turn at the sight of him. Her fist was healed by now, and she could definitely go for the thrill of punching him again. "I don't know if you're mine, Armin. I never had the guts to find out. I knew you existed because by that point, your mother had fallen very ill, and could not continue working, and could barely support either of you. I sent her money, but it was never enough."

"Yeah, you probably just honestly did not give her enough to support a child," Armin sighed. "I know she didn't take medication. She couldn't afford it. All her money went to me, if I'm recalling correctly."

Her father grimaced. "I'm sorry," he said robotically.

"I've met murderers more sympathetic than you," Armin told him in a quiet, empty tone.

Historia watched her father's face, and she was struck by how easy it was to horrify him. So she smiled, her lips pulling taut from the action, and she said in the sweetest voice she could manage, "That'd be me."

Her father jolted in surprise, eying her quizzically, and then his eyes flashing in absolute horror, his lips twisting as he turned his face away. Armin laughed alongside her, and said brightly, "Me too!" They high fived, and she couldn't help but laugh as well at how broken her father looked.

Amazing.

"Are you going to arrest us for that?" Historia asked innocently.

"Good luck," Armin said earnestly.

"They really did turn you into monsters," Reiss whispered, his eyes lowering to his desk.

"Pretty much," Armin said. "Can you keep talking? We're not exactly made of time here."

Reiss ran his fingers through his thinning hair, and he shook his head. He looked exhausted, but Historia knew they had barely gotten what they'd come for. He continued unsteadily, glancing around the office with thinning lips, and darting eyes.

"After her condition became so bad that she genuinely could not take care of you," Reiss told Armin, "I made an arrangement to have her taken into the facility. By that point Historia had already had her accident. I took you in, Armin."

"I don't remember that," Armin said quietly. He bounced his head from side to side, and then shrugged. "Well, not really. Bits and pieces."

"I did it mostly to spite my wife," Reiss admitted. Armin actually snorted at that, turning his face away. "But you were… a very good child. Easier to manage than Historia."

"Sounds about right," she found herself musing aloud. Armin glanced at her curiously.

"Well, I didn't have epilepsy," Armin said, "so…"

"No, you didn't." Her father folded his hands on his desk, and it seemed as though he was growing more comfortable with speaking to them, which was strange. "But either way, you were very quiet, and you never ventured off. I could always find you in the library. I don't think you even knew what half the house looked like."

"So you've always been a dork," Historia said quietly. Armin glanced at her, and smiled weakly.

"So, then what?" Armin asked, flexing his bare fingers. "You found out I had a brain tumor?"

"What?" Historia asked flatly.

Reiss ignored her, focusing his attention on Armin. "At first we thought it was epilepsy," he admitted. "Like Historia, and your mother. It became clear very quickly that that wasn't the case. You were sent to the facility. Shortly after, your mother…"

"Went insane?" Armin offered. Reiss grimaced. "Yeah, what the hell was that about?"

"Her procedure didn't stick," Reiss said. "It was unsuccessful. These things happen."

"That's why you don't experiment on people," Armin said darkly.

Reiss rose to his feet, standing up straight so he became taller than them. Armin took a step back on impulse, and Historia leaned forward, her palms scraping across his desk. Her father's eyes were hard now, and his jaw tightened as he stared down at them.

"Care to remember," he said sharply, "that you two are only alive now because of those experiments. Armin, you might not remember, but you were _begging_ me to save you. Historia, you were nearly brain dead. Without sacrifice, you two would never be where you are now. You should thank me!"

"We were children," Armin said in a hoarse, vacant tone. "Children cannot be held responsible for the choices adults offer out to them. We could not consent to experimentation. You may have saved our lives somehow, but you made us into monsters in the process."

"You had Father Nick kidnap me," Historia recalled. Reiss looked at her desperately, and she shook her head. "He understood my powers perfectly. Who told him?"

Her father grimaced, and turned away. "Not me, Historia," he said quietly. "I'm not the monster you're looking for."

"You mean," Armin said, "you aren't in charge?"

"No."

"Then who is?" Historia was suddenly eager for information, more so than ever, and she leaned across the desk, her hair falling into eyes as she craned her neck up at him. "Dr. Jaeger? Ilse Langner?"

Her father rubbed his face tiredly, his exhaustion clear, and he drew his palms down his cheeks, his skin growing taut. He glanced between the two of them, his maybe children, and he shook his head. "I can't," he whispered. "I'll tell you where your mother is, but don't ask me for that."

Historia found herself angry again, her teeth cracking against one another, and she drew her fist up. Armin caught her wrist with his warm fingers, and she glanced up at him. His eyes were on her father's face, his expression firm and his eyes bright.

"Deal," he said.

They made their way out as they'd made there way in, and once again they were met with no trouble. It was an empty sort of success. They had gotten what they came for, but left with little to show for it. Armin held her hand from the moment they left the office to the moment they stopped in front of the designated hospital her father had plopped their mentally unstable mother into.

"We don't actually have to do this," Armin told her quietly.

"Why come all the way here," Historia replied, "if we don't at least see her?"

He said nothing. He merely nodded, and let go of her hand. She found herself wondering if they were feeling the same thing. The empty ache of knowing something wasn't going to live up to the expectations, that there was nothing they could do. She wondered if they were truly, truly alike, and she wished it, she wished it with all her heart, but that was the problem. She wished for things, and it left her with nothing. Armin was hard to love, but it was difficult not to care for him.

She felt obligated to follow him as he went to the front desk and asked for their mother's name. It wasn't Rose. They were sent to the Psychiatric Ward, and that left them both hanging closer together, uncertain of what they would find. Armin had sent Erwin a text to tell him where they were while they waited in the elevator, and Historia thought about Ymir. How would Ymir react to all this? Would she even care? No, probably not. She'd just go with it.

"This was a terrible idea," she whispered as they entered the Psych Ward. It was about as creepy as the rest of the hospital, not more so, which was a relief, but she felt uncomfortable being here. Maybe because she didn't trust her own state of mind, or Armin's, and this was the kind of place she dreaded ever being in.

"We can leave if you want," Armin whispered back.

"I didn't say that." She let the sleeves of Ymir's jacket fall over her hands, and she buried her nose in the collar, inhaling the scent of Ymir's shampoo. It was a grand comfort in this place of uncertainties.

They were led to a lobby, which was filled with patients who were mostly sitting around at little round tables, some of them wandering around, some of them watching television, or merely staring at a television screen. They were pointed toward a table toward the other side of the room, near a window, and Armin lead the way once again while Historia was left wanted to cry or scream or something of that caliber, but she didn't think this was a good place to do so, lest she trigger someone.

The woman sitting by the window was Historia. Add maybe twenty years. They had the same face, the same dead eyes, the same flaxen hair, the same flawless skin with a sweet rosy blush permanently dusted upon her cheekbones. It wasn't cute on this woman like it was on Historia. It made her face look blotchy and discolored. There were dark circles under the woman's hollow blue eyes, and the more Historia looked, the more the upper half of her face looked identical to Armin's. Even her fluffy fringe of pale hair seemed to scream an echo of the boy standing beside her.

She didn't look up when they stopped beside her. A nurse rested a hand on the woman's shoulder, but the woman did not seem to care what she had to say. Historia sat down at the table, empty, empty, empty, and she realized where she must have gotten such hollowness from. This woman was nothing but a shell. Historia didn't know what she'd been expecting.

How could the mother of two such vacuous people be anything less?

"Oh," the nurse sighed. "Oh, I'm sorry, she's not having a good day. She's been doing well the entire week, interacting and even speaking sometimes, but I don't think you'll get much from her. You said you're her… children?"

"Yes," Historia and Armin said in dull unison. They were both staring at her mother, this dead eyed stranger, and neither of them could move.

"I don't mean to intrude," the nurse said carefully, "but where have you been? She rarely gets visitors."

"We were separated," Armin said quietly. "I… we were fostered at different places— different states. We only just recently found each other again."

"Ah," said the nurse. "I see. Well, I'll be over there if you need me. Please don't touch her, or yell, or anything that might upset her or the other patients. Okay?"

"Yes," they said in unison.

They sat for minutes in silence. Minutes. Minutes. Historia folded her arms on the surface of her table. She put her head down. She didn't understand why her throat was aching so badly.

She felt a hand on her back, and she stiffened, glancing up at Armin. He sat down beside her, rubbing small, gentle circles around her spine. "She's thinking about us," he whispered.

She clapped her hands over her eyes and choked on a sob.

They were there for about half an hour when Armin asked her if she wanted him to try to get deeper into their mother's mind. She asked him if he could fix her.

"If I could," he said softly, "don't you think I would have by now?"

He told her that going into their mother's mind was a lot like going into Bertholdt or Reiner's. Very difficult, so much so that it almost hurt. There were too many things going on at once. He refrained from touching her, but he narrated the things he saw. Bits and pieces. Their faces came up a lot. Childlike and bright-eyed. She thought they were dead.

"Can't you let her know we're here?" Historia asked desperately.

"I tried," Armin said, "she doesn't think we're real."

It was like watching a television screen that only showed one picture for hours on end with the steady backdrop of a bow against violin strings. Their mother was something, but she was also nothing. Armin spoke in hushed tones, his voice wavering as he told Historia little things that made his hands shake. She reached out and held them as he knitted words into something comprehensible.

"She worked with Levi," he told her softly. "They were both prostitutes."

"Levi was…?" Historia couldn't imagine it.

Armin nodded. "She was older than him," he whispered, squeezing her hands. "She thinks he didn't belong in the business. He couldn't handle it. It made him sick."

"I can't imagine…" she whispered.

"She kept telling him he needed to save money," Armin said. "He wasn't good at that. After his powers manifested, he quit for a few years, and then went back because he needed a way to fund his addiction. And… he wanted to get away from his father…"

"Kenny Ackerman," Historia said. She ran her fingers over Armin's bony knuckles, not able to look at their vacant mother. She had not yet moved positions, but she had folded her hands on the table. "I've… been wondering, does that mean Levi really is related to Mikasa?"

"I don't know, Historia," he murmured, his eyes glassy and distant as he watched her face. "Maybe. I don't think it matters to them if they're related by blood or not, though. It won't change a thing."

Historia glanced at their mother, and she felt achy in the throat again. Her voice was reedy as she spoke. "Finding out we were related," she said softly, "changed how we saw each other."

Armin studied her dazedly. He was sickly pale, and his hands were too warm. "Yes," he said, "I guess so."

"I didn't want it to." She spoke with a trembling voice, her eyes watering as she watched her mother watch them. She could see her mother's mouth moving. "I didn't want to care. I thought it would be better if I didn't."

"Better for who, exactly?"

"I don't know," she mumbled, pulling her hands back and staring at their mother. "I don't know…"

"You don't have to want me to be your brother," Armin told her gently. "It's okay. We're two completely different people who grew up in completely different ways. We can't be siblings in any normal sense, except technical."

"Ymir would know how to help," she sniffled, wiping her nose on Ymir's pink sleeve. "She helped me come to terms with things. Now I… oh, Armin, I don't know how to act or— or _think_, I feel like I've lost myself somewhere..."

"I understand," he said firmly. "I wouldn't feel like living anymore if I lost Eren and Mikasa. But I would keep going. Like you're still going. Because you're so much stronger than you think you are, Historia."

"I just want to… feel… something…" She sunk into her seat, and buried her face in her hands. "_Anything_."

"You do feel things," he told her earnestly. "I promise you that."

"You can't know that…"

"Everyone feels something," he said, rising to his feet. "Even emptiness is a feeling. It'll get better, Historia. We're going to get better."

She lowered her hands, glancing up at him as he nodded in determination. She nodded back, stunned, and he turned away. He was a little unsteady on his feet. "I'm going to get us some hot chocolate," he said. "You should stay with mom."

"Okay," she said hoarsely.

And so she was alone with her mother, a vacant woman who must've been something at some point, but now Historia had trouble considering her to be real, and it hurt. She didn't know how to act around an empty shell. _Oh my god_, Historia thought, feeling sick as she rested her forehead against the cool gray linoleum table top. _I'm a hypocrite. I'm a terrible hypocrite. Somebody please gag me_.

She felt something against her hair, and she raised her head, blinking tearfully at her mother's beautiful, cracked marble face. Purple bruises dug deep into her dazed blue eyes, carving out swollen bags of skin, and drawing red lines through the whites of her eyes. Cold, bony fingers were snagging in her hair, pulling soothing trails down her scalp.

The woman was humming. "_Meine H__ä__nde sind verschwunden_," she sang idly, her voice unimaginably soft and lilting, honey sweet inside Historia's ears. Her mother hummed, drawing her fingers down and touching Historia's cheek. The woman had a rose on her wrist, red and blooming amongst twisted snarls of green thorns that crawled all up her bare forearm. Tears trickled over a frigid white thumb, and Historia muffled a sob against her hand. She lurched to her feet, turning her face sharply away from her mother's ghostly cold touch, and she fled the room.

"Armin?" she called, ignoring the sharp shooshing of a nurse. "Armin! I want to go home now!"

She pushed her way out of the Psych Ward, ducking nurses who tried to speak to her, and she called Armin's name as she wiped at her cheeks furiously, sobs crawling up her throat. She let her feet take her wherever, and that was a mistake, because suddenly she was sobbing in the Pediatric Ward, her body pressed up against a wall under a great blown up cartoon rainbow, and she was curled into a crouch near the floor, her mouth against her knees as she bit into her thigh highs, desperate to stop the creeping, crawling itch and ache of sobs and tears and screams. She hated how terrible she was. She would never come to see her mother again.

Someone had sat her down eventually and pacified her.

"Where is your family, sweetheart?" a kind blonde nurse who identified themself as Nanaba asked.

"I-I…" She hiccupped, flushing in embarrassment. "My brother… he… I don't know where he is…"

"It's okay, we can find him. How old is he?"

"Um…" Historia used Ymir's sleeve to wipe the snot from her nose again. "Fifteen…?"

Nanaba whispered to another nurse. "Okay," they said gently. "What's his name?"

"Armin," she said. "His name is Armin. He's five-foot-four, and his hair is long like this." She bunched up her hair so it curled under her jaw and around her chin.

"Armin?" Nanaba looked at Historia, and suddenly her sobs dispersed. The ache in her throat was replaced by a sinking in her chest. Nanaba had the type of look that Historia knew was recognition. And something like concern.

"Yes," Historia said, straightening up on a plush red bench. She stared up at Nanaba, her lips parting in confusion. "What? What is it?"

Nanaba bit their lip, and gave the hall a onceover. They straightened up and said, with a morose little voice, "Please follow me."

* * *

_fun fact guys, the title of this chapter is a quote bye... cicero! yes, gotta love good ol' ciceroni _

_soo, yeah, this one is definitely one of my personal favorite chapters? i love historia chapters in general because i get to exercise my meta for her character which is always exciting_

_ah, so next chapter's a bit of a doozy. apology in advance to becca. i really, really tried. _


	26. sorrow itself

**lorem ipsum**

**washington d.c.**

_a.d. iv non. nov., 2677 a.u.c._

Armin's first nightmare had been a surprise, to say the least. He could recall the dimness of the hotel room, the familiar lumpy discomfort of the couch, the musty scent of decay and bleach that seemed to cling to every surface. Shafts of moonlight had trickled in from above, and he had only just calmed his mind enough to fall into a blanket of dark sleep, his mind trained to keep dreams away.

The scream had been like a bullet crashing into the dirt beside his head.

Erwin recalled awakening, expecting a gun in his hand, ammunition weighing him down, a grenade close at hand. But he had been asleep in a pair of faded gray sweatpants he'd coined from a Laundromat, deciding to use what little money he could scrounge up on Armin.

The boy was a twisted white apparition in a hazy dream, and Erwin had not known what to do.

He used to have night terrors. Not so much when he had been on duty, but when he'd been sent home, that had been the truest hell. He used to awake all alone in an apartment, to complete and utter blackness, to faces crawling across his stolen sight, memories burning into his mind, and he'd cried on the floor, his body unused to the luxury of his bed, and he'd forced himself to do something constructive such as exercises or walking around his apartment or writing down memories of sights he'd never see again.

Armin's night terrors were worse than Erwin's had been.

His tiny body would not stay still, and he was sobbing, sheets caught between his curling limbs as his voice fluctuated, small and reedy, and he'd gripped his head and screamed. Erwin had lurched to his feet, his heart pounding, because he had no idea what to do. If this had been a comrade, he would have knocked some sense into him, but this was just a child, a child Erwin had barely known at the time.

"Armin," he'd said with a hoarse voice. The boy had moaned, his eyes snapping open, and upon seeing Erwin standing over him, he had screamed some more. "Armin!"

Erwin had did the only thing he could think of. He'd sat down on the edge of the bed, taken the boy by the arms, and hefted him upright. "Shh," Erwin had tried, hopelessly trying to recall any child soothing techniques he might have picked up over the years. "Shh, Armin, it's alright. It's okay. Look at me."

Armin had strained himself to stare fearfully into Erwin's face. Tear tracks glistened in the shivering light, and a tiny sob escaped his lips. Suddenly, recognition sparked there, and he'd stopped struggling. "Erwin?" the boy had croaked, shaking pitifully.

"Yes," Erwin said, smoothing back the boy's hair tentatively so it wouldn't get wet with drool and tears and snot. "Hello. I hope I didn't frighten you too badly."

"I…" Armin had been mortified, and he'd looked ready to burst into tears again. "O-oh god, I'm sorry, oh god—"

"We all have nightmares, Armin," Erwin had told him as gently as possible. "You are not the first boy to be scared of something that isn't really there. Here now, get up. Let's play a game."

"A…?" Armin had looked minutely horrified. "Erwin, it's… it's late, are you—?"

Erwin parted the curtains above his ratty couch, letting moonlight spill vicariously across the dull room. Armin had squinted, and Erwin recalled his shaking, his face sickly as though he were about to puke.

"Yes, a game." Erwin sat down on his couch, moving the blanket out of the way. Armin did the same, wiping the drool and snot and tears on his sleeve, blinking his glassy eyes through the glare of moonlight. "I'll say three facts about myself, and you have to guess which one is a lie."

"What?" Armin had been stricken with confusion. "But—"

"One," Erwin had said, "I've eaten a shoe."

"Ew," Armin had blurted, laughter struggling into his voice. "That's gross!"

Erwin had smiled. "Two," he said, "I've been arrested for a DUI."

Armin said nothing in response to that. He'd merely studied Erwin, blinking his tearful eyes and slumping.

"Three," he said, "there is a very large graffiti mural in Baltimore that I tagged with my actual name to see if Erwin Smith could be traced."

"Why would you do that?" Armin blurted.

"I don't know," Erwin had said, smiling at the small boy. "Did I really do it?"

"Yes," Armin said firmly. "You've never been arrested, so clearly the second one was a lie."

"How do you know that?"

"You were a high ranking military official, duh!" Armin shook his head furiously. "You were trusted with secrets. You can't have a felony for that."

"That's not entirely true," Erwin had said. He studied Armin's face. He'd been impressed, to say the least.

"So why did you tag the mural?" Armin had asked eagerly.

Erwin had explained that he had simply wanted to see what would happen.

He'd explained in such extraneous detail that Armin had fallen asleep. That had been the start of what Erwin considered one of the most rewarding relationships he'd had in his life.

Armin always had nightmares. They were on and off, erratic in nature, but inevitable. Erwin became used to waking up in the middle of the night to soothe the boy, and there was a sense of trust between them that Erwin knew Armin did not hand out very easily. Erwin was so used to awaking in the middle of the night to Armin's nightmares that it was a little strange to have months go by without one. Had Erwin simply not been paying attention? Had he missed something crucial?

Aside from the fact that Armin barely slept?

Erwin had gotten a vision once. His visions were quick, erratic, like channels flickering past on a television screen, numbers ticking by, only ever going up. The channel had flickered. It had stopped. The year was uncertain. It was long past the date Erwin had been living at that point in time. The color had been sapped from the future, monochrome dreams washing over Erwin's mind.

In this future, there was a boy in a hospital bed.

An intravenous drip hung from his bony arm.

His eyes were a burst of color, a murky blue in a sea of gray.

His pasty, chapped lips had trembled as he'd smiled, miserable.

His voice was a dull thrum in the back of Erwin's mind.

"_I'm so glad you didn't see this coming_."

Erwin rubbed his face tiredly as he leaned back in his chair. He was sitting at an outside table at a little café, coffee steaming from the cup before him. It was a chilly day, which was to be expected from early November, but Erwin didn't mind. He enjoyed the cold weather. Erwin rested his hands against his eyes, reeling at the thought of Armin's peculiar behavior. That boy trusted him, sure, but like hell he'd tell Erwin _anything_.

"Tired?" a familiar voice asked, the squeak of the chair across from him jolting him from his thoughts.

Erwin dropped his hands into his lap and straightened up. He smiled warmly as he stood, reaching across the table and grasping his old friend's hand. "Nile," he said, keeping the handshake formal. "It's good to see you."

"Yeah," Nile said, his face older now than it had been a few years ago. He had wrinkles now. That was interesting. Did Erwin have wrinkles? "Yeah, wow. Didn't think you'd be contacting me again, honestly."

"Ah, yes." Erwin sat down, keeping his posture straight as Nile mirrored him. "We didn't leave on the most cordial terms."

"Well," Nile said, his shoulders rising and falling in a meager shrug, "confessing your love to your best friend's wife will do that to a relationship."

Erwin laughed. That had not been the last time they had seen each other, of course. This meant that Nile was being tailed. Typical. "I cannot apologize enough for that," he said, shaking his head in disbelief at his younger self. "Though, technically, she was not your wife then."

"You know, I think she would've gone for you if you weren't up for a tour," Nile said, his smile thin. "You always were better looking."

"I sincerely doubt she wanted anything to do with me." Erwin had not thought about this in years. It had seemed so huge then, like the world would end if he had not told this one girl that he loved her before he fought in a war, but now he felt as though he'd been tricked somehow. Society had prepared him for a life like any other. A successful job in law, a beautiful wife to come home to everyday, a happy life, a fulfilling life.

That had never been the life for him.

"I'm not complaining," Nile said with a snort. "I'm glad you bailed. Got a family now, thanks to your fear of commitment."

"I am not afraid of commitment, Nile," Erwin said smoothly.

"So you've settled down?" Nile quirked a brow, and Erwin stared at him placidly. He took a sip of his coffee, letting it scald against his tongue and peel off the skin of the roof of his mouth. Nile snorted. "Thought not."

"I'm not married," Erwin admitted, setting his coffee aside. "I never intend to get married. But I do have a son."

Nile's eyes shot wide for a moment.

They wouldn't speak of it in public, but Nile Dawk had committed a rather large felony at Erwin's request a few years ago.

That had been the last time they had met. Nile had handed over a test tube of inky black liquid, Erwin had thanked him, and Nile had sworn they were even.

As far as Erwin knew, no one had suspected a thing.

"A son," Nile said slowly. Incredulously. "You have a son?"

Erwin smirked. "Did I not just say," he said, bringing his coffee cup to his lips, "that I have a son? You aren't so old that your hearing is impaired, Nile."

"Ha ha." Nile grimaced. "Glad to know you haven't lost your sense of humor. But seriously, a son? Whose son?"

Erwin thought back to the facility. Rose had been very quiet, even before her procedure, and he had never thought to get to know her. He regretted that now_. If I'd known then_, he thought. _If my precognition worked the way it's supposed to_… Ah, it couldn't be helped. Rose had been doomed from the start, and Erwin would not have Armin without her untimely mental instability.

It was terrible, of course, to be thankful for a woman's insanity. But Erwin never pretended to be anything less.

"He's not mine biologically, Nile," Erwin assured the man, pulling his phone from his pocket. "But he_ is_ my son."

"I never pegged you for a parent type," Nile admitted, sounding awed. "Too self-absorbed."

"You flatter me," Erwin said, his thumb sliding through photographs on his phone. "The word you're looking for is narcissistic."

"There we go!"

Erwin smiled. He turned the phone to Nile, who took it carefully and peered at the photo. The man's eyes flickered over Armin's picture, a simple photo of him from about a year previous. He'd been in the library where Erwin had once worked, cooped up between two shelves with a small mountain of books at his side. He'd looked up upon Erwin's intrusion, and the boy had smiled wanly at the camera. His eyes had been brighter then. His face fuller, his cheeks rosier.

"A teenager?" Nile actually sounded impressed. "Damn. You've always been gutsy, but taking in a teen is tough work."

His phone buzzed.

It was a struggle.

"He's a good kid," Erwin said, watching Nile flick the screen. "Far, far better than we were when we were his age." _Or worse, when Levi was their age_. Erwin thought about it sometimes, the misfortune that was Levi's life. Erwin didn't know everything about Levi, of course, just the basics. The prostitution, the abusive father, the substance abuse. None of it was Levi's fault. Erwin would never blame the man for his temperament.

Nile glanced up from the phone. His fingers flew hastily across the screen as he spoke quietly. "I see."

Erwin nodded. He took a sip of coffee, and he waited. Nile was typing very quickly, and he began to speak, his voice slow and measured. "Do you remember," the man said, "how terrible we were? Taking hits outside the school, fucking girls under the bleachers…"

"Mm, no," Erwin said, glancing up at the gray noon sky. "No, I don't believe I ever fucked anyone, that was all you."

"No, you did, I remember." Nile never looked up from the phone. It had buzzed again. "You got drunk at a football game—"

"Ah." Erwin smiled grimly at the memory. "Yes. I remember that. But no, there was no fucking that night, I can assure you. I got slightly buzzed and played it off in order to get out of watching football for another two hours. I ended up going home."

"You were an incredible dork," Nile said with a scoff.

"I won some money off that game," Erwin recalled. Even before the facility, he'd had an uncanny ability to predict the future outcome of things. Such as high school football games.

"Hey, I didn't say you weren't smart." Nile turned the phone back to Erwin. It buzzed, a message popping up and quickly disappearing. Erwin was not focused on it. The blocky letters underneath his message read, _They're always following me. Be careful_. Erwin had asked how long he'd known he was being followed.

This complicated things a bit.

"I can really never apologize enough," Erwin said carefully, "for the last time we met."

Nile studied him. Yes, the man was catching on quickly. "It didn't end badly," the man said. "And you had your reasons. I'm sure."

"I'd tell you if I could," Erwin said earnestly. "But it's for the best, I think. Shall we put this thing behind us?"

"Well, that's why I'm here."

Erwin was overtaken by a blunt vision just then. Smoke spread over his eyes. Milky white smoke, blooming slow. Fire. Yes, fire. Broken glass danced across the screen of smoke, and a head dashed into a steering wheel.

Blood.

So much blood.

_An accident, _someone whispered. Smoke billowed from their mouth. Perhaps it had been the smoke that had whispered it.

No. It was no accident.

Nile Dawk's bloody face was pressed into his dashboard. His breaks had been cut.

Alive, though. The man groaned. Smoke burst around him. Alive.

Erwin tore himself from the vision, blinking the smoke away. Nile was watching him curiously. Erwin was breathing a little heavier than before, and he exhaled sharply through his nose. The scent of smoke burnt his nostrils. His phone buzzed.

"Nile," Erwin said sharply, looking straight into the man's eyes. "You drove here today, yes?"

Nile watched him quizzically. "Yes…?"

"Take the subway back," Erwin said. "Do not use your car. Get it towed, bring it to a shop. Just don't use it."

Nile sat, his fingers tightening around his coffee cup. He turned his face away, and nodded slowly. "Sure," he said. "I'll do that. But, Erwin, you could do me a solid and tell me why."

He could. Nile was already aware of a good portion of it. He was, after all, the Chief Editor of _The Brigade_. He knew things. He hid things. He was the reason Erwin Smith had signed a contract handing over his life to a facility that promised him something he thought impossible. When Erwin had revealed the conditions of the facility post-escape, Nile had been utterly distraught.

"Children?" Nile had whispered, horrified and blanching. "No… no why… why children…?"

It had been then that they had struck a deal. Nile would procure a very specific substance from the facility's lab, wherever it was, and hand it over to Erwin. In turn, Erwin would never ask a favor of Nile again. Which was fair. And the reason why they had all gone through such great lengths to get into _The Brigade's_ computer system.

This was the first time they were speaking in several years. It would've been nice if they weren't being watched.

His phone began to ring, and he scooped it up, glancing at the caller id. He blinked at Nile, and held up a finger, quickly turning away to answer it. "Hello?" he said gently. "Historia?"

"_Erwin_," the tiny girl gasped, "_Erwin, you… you weren't answering me. Where are you_?"

"Catching up with an old friend," he told her. "Is everything alright?"

"_No_," she breathed. "_No, I… oh, I don't know_!"

"Please calm down," he said gently. "Panicking will make everything so much worse. Now, very slowly, I need you to tell me what's happened."

"_I…_" Historia sounded close to sobbing. "_Oh, Erwin, can't you just come here? I don't know. I don't know what's wrong, no one tells me anything, they think I'm nine_!"

"Nine?" Erwin didn't know how to pacify her over the phone. He'd have to improvise. _What would make Armin feel better? _"A mistake on their part, you could almost certainly pass for a twelve year old."

"_Erwin_!"

"I'm only teasing you," he sighed. "Please calm down, and tell me where you are. Is Armin okay?"

"_That's the whole problem_!" Historia groaned.

"I can't help if I don't know where you are," Erwin reminded gently.

"_Oh_." Historia sounded breathless. "_Um, H-Howard University Hospital…? I think_?"

Erwin stood up, nodding slowly. Her breathlessness mingled with his dread, the sound putting ambience to his cloudy sense of futures. He saw possibilities in everything, but there was no future in Armin. Everything around him was a deep, thundering blackness. Everything he touched turned dark. He was a lightless path in a twisted, foggy forest. Pursuing him felt like running headlong into a tree.

"I'll be right there," he told her. He adjusted his scarf, glancing at Nile apologetically. The man took a sip of his coffee and shrugged.

Erwin listened to Historia's shallow breaths, and he wondered if she was crying. "_Hurry_," she whispered, her voice muffled against the phone receiver.

She hung up.

Erwin was left to stand for a moment, searching the channels of the futures that could be, the endless strings of limitless possibilities floating before him.

Armin was not anywhere in the ever flowing current of time, nor the branching off variables that spiked out from the main loop.

Armin might as well not even exist.

"I'm so sorry, Nile," Erwin sighed, tucking his phone away. "My son—"

"I heard." Nile tilted his head. "Is everything alright?"

"We'll see." Erwin grabbed his coffee, pushing his chair in. "I'd love to do this more often. Perhaps you could come to New York one of these days? My roommates are always interested in playing host." Well, one of them, anyway.

"You have roommates?" Nile asked curiously.

"Circumstantial arrangement," Erwin explained. "For Armin."

"Your son," the man clarified. Erwin smiled.

"Yes," he said. "My son."

"So weird," Nile chuckled. "Well, I might take you up on that offer. One of these days, at least. We really _must_ talk more."

"I couldn't agree more," Erwin said. They shook hands.

Years and years ago, if Erwin had looked into the future and saw himself here, now, undeterred by the prospect of his best friend's possibly imminent death, the boy would balk.

He'd been a nobler man when he'd painted buildingsides and had romantic notions and believed in futures because he could not see them.

Wartime had jaded him.

The facility had broken him.

Armin had given him stability.

A real future.

Not the cookie cutter kind that Erwin had been pursuing before it had all been busted by reality. Armin had handed Erwin the keys to something greater. A life that could mean something. In Armin, Erwin had sought a brighter future than even his precognition could reach.

Erwin drove as fast as he could, but there was an immense amount of traffic. He was left to his own musings. And the subtle shift in futures. Nile Dawk would live. For today. Tomorrow he could die just as easily. But Erwin saw that there was no malice in that possibility. If he died, it was out of fate, not human design.

He called Levi while in the car to make sure everything was going smoothly. Things tended to pile up when one group went off on their own. Erwin was not in the mood to deal with futures he could not predict outright.

"_I'm still in a hospital_," Levi said thickly, "_so it's going pretty gross_."

"Good to hear." Erwin watched children crash into a pile of leaves in a park across the street from where his car was all but parked. "Mikasa's still there, I expect?"

"_Yeah, you wanna nag at her? Go ahead_." There was a pause, and Erwin smirked as the connection shuffled. Mikasa's voice was hoarse as she spoke. "_Erwin_?"

"Hello, Mikasa. I didn't intend to speak with you. Levi is simply being an ass."

"_Yeah, well, what else is new_..." She sounded pensive. "_Is Armin okay_?"

Erwin's mouth went dry. This girl. She could probably sense it from Manhattan. The unrest between the words _Armin _and _okay_. Perhaps she could hear the battle raging on in the spaces from four hours away.

"Armin's on a mission," Erwin said. "But I'm positive he's fine."

"_Oh_," she said. "_O-okay, bye, Erw_—!" She was cut off as a brisk voice took over the phone. "_Hi, yes, hello, this is Eren speaking, can you cut the shit and like, make sure he's not passed out in an alley somewhere? 'Cause he would push himself that far. You know he would. He shouldn't even be on a fuckin' mission, and it ain't 'cause I think he's weak, it's 'cause he's gonna fuckin' break down if he doesn't take a breath of fuckin' air_—"

"_Give me that, brat_." Levi's voice was almost welcome in comparison to Eren's snappish southern drawl. "_You managed to piss off the peanut gallery, congrats_."

"They're not wrong," Erwin admitted. "Armin pushes himself too hard."

"_Yeah, are you gonna check that shit out_?" Levi sounded skeptical. "_It's not exactly normal. But neither is the little creep, so what do I know_."

Erwin understood. This was the sort of thing that had been weighing down for a while. Everyone had noticed. A string of heavy words was about to snap.

"I appreciate your concern," Erwin said mechanically, "but I can't force Armin into anything he's not comfortable with. And he hates doctors."

"_Well, so do I_," Levi said, "_but here I am, rotting in a hospital_."

Erwin sighed. "Yes, well, Armin's predicament is a little more extreme than yours." Erwin checked the time. He'd been stuck in traffic for half an hour. If Historia had been panicking before, Erwin expected she was close to throwing a tantrum. Even so, he wasn't sure exactly what he was heading into. His sight could not reach his immediate future. Armin made the world go dark. Thus Erwin was going in blind, knowing nothing but Historia's panic over the situation.

"_I honestly don't give a shit_," Levi said. "_Was there an actual reason why you called? Or do you just like giving me grief_?"

"I'd like details about Eren's time in Oregon," Erwin said. "Have him write down everything he can remember. I'd like Jean Kirschstein's account as well. I also want to speak to Connie Springer personally about what happened."

"_The kid's house almost burned to the ground_," Levi said dully. "_You really wanna give him a heart attack_?"

"I'm not particularly keen on the fact he withheld information."

"_So did Petra_," Levi reminded. "_Whatever. Do what you want_."

"I intend to."

"_Yeah, yeah. Can you speed that shit up, because I want these bandages off already_." Levi sounded irritable, which was unsurprising. Erwin smiled.

"You can live a few more hours in a hospital," Erwin assured him. "But yes, we'll be back soon. I expect."

"_Fine. Bye_." Levi hung up, and Erwin couldn't help but thing he was an incredible man-child.

Erwin leaned out the window, calling to a bystander standing at the sidewalk. The traffic was still not moving. "Excuse me," he said, "but do you know what the hold up is?"

"Hm?" The man glanced back at Erwin. He shrugged. "Ah, I think there was a security breach up at the White House."

"Oh?" Erwin settled back in his seat, grimacing. Figured that Armin and Historia would cause the mess that prevented him from actually reaching them. "That's terrible."

He was aware that they'd been taking a risk with this particular objective. Confronting Reiss outright had been Historia's idea. She wanted to see him or, more aptly, she wanted him to see her. He understood. She was attempting to gain back some semblance of agency, and to do that she had to face the man who had taken it away from her. Erwin could only hope the mission had not taken a wrong turn. If they had gotten caught, there was little Erwin could do for them.

Erwin knew a lot of people in this city. He knew them, but it was unlikely they knew him. At least not the Erwin Smith who fought against monsters and corrupt organizations. No, they either knew Erwin as the soldier he used to be, or the boy that had died somewhere along the way. He wasn't sure. It all depended on the person.

Finally, after an hour of anxious waiting, Erwin parked his car and entered the hospital. The scent was the first thing that hit him. The stinging smell of antiseptic and bleach. The masked scent of sickness. Dread crept upon his lungs, and hitched his breath. His eyesight became fuzzy as he closed his eyes, and let himself recollect.

He'd spent too much time in hospitals as of late.

"Hello," he said, walking up to the front desk. "I'm looking for my children, they might have come through here earlier?"

"Names?" the girl at the desk asked dully.

Historia would not have used her real name. She was smarter than that. "Christa Lenz and Armin Arlelt," he said. The woman checked her computer screen, typing quickly. She turned her gaze back up to Erwin, nodding her head with a frown. "They went to the Psych Ward. They haven't left, I don't think. Try floor three. Can you just sign in here?" She pushed a pen and paper toward him, names trailing down to a block of empty spaces. He spotted Armin and Historia's names. He signed quickly, and left her to find an elevator.

He did not find Armin and Historia in the Psych Ward.

In fact, he had not even been admitted into the Psych Ward. He'd been told at the doors that there were no teenagers fitting Armin and Historia's descriptions visiting.

He texted Historia to ask where she was.

_Well_, Erwin thought_, this is strange_.

He filled with dread as she replied.

_Pediatric ward._

He was not good with handling things he could not predict. And he could not predict this. So, rightfully, he felt as though he should be wary as he proceeded. He asked for directions to the Pediatric Ward, and he found that it wasn't too far. It was easy to get lost, however, and Erwin nearly found himself in a Cancer Ward by mistake, but a kind nurse pointed him in the right direction.

His brain was scrambled. His concern was reaching a peak.

"Historia," he called.

He found the girl right outside the door, sitting on a bench just below a brightly depicted cartoon rainbow. Her face was buried in her knees, which were pressed firmly to her chest. She looked up upon hearing her name, her eyes hollow and sunken and her cheeks and nose plainly flushed as though she'd been keeping herself from crying. Her hair was in disarray, flaxen strands sticking to her ruddy cheeks, tucked at her forehead and stuck up all around the crown of her head, static forcing it to stand on end. She leapt to her feet at the sight of him.

For a moment he thought she would run up to him. But she stood frozen, her lips parted and her eyes darted from his face. He composed himself. He didn't need to see the future to know something had gone terribly wrong.

"Historia," he repeated in a softer tone, walking up to meet her. "What's happened?"

"I…" She struggled to speak. Her voice wavered pitifully, thick with sadness and strangled by fear. He could sense her panic. "Oh… I don't even know how to…" She took a deep breath, smoothing back her hair. She sniffled once, and bowed her head. "Nobody tells me any details. But, um, Armin's getting a CT scan. Or he was, three hours ago. CT scans don't take that long, right? I don't think they do. I think he might be getting an MRI too, I don't know, but three hours is such a long time, I don't really know how it could take so long, and they're not _telling _me anything!" She scratched her hair in frustration, and Erwin felt the urge to grab her wrists and hush her. He didn't, of course. He wasn't really her father. He understood where his boundaries were.

"A CT scan," Erwin said. He tried to wrap his head around that.

He sat down.

Historia stood before him, nodding. Nodding. She was such a tiny girl, her jacket didn't even fit her, and she was wrapping the sleeves around her hands nervously as she spoke.

"I was told," she said shakily, her voice thicker now, "he collapsed in a hallway, and was immediately brought here. He had a concussion, so they took him for a CT scan. That was the only thing they told me, and that was when I first got here. Three hours ago. I… I didn't want to bother you… I thought it'd be quicker than it was…"

"He had a concussion?" Erwin's hands itched to rub his face. His stomach churned at the thought, and it was strange and terrifying. When had Armin stopped talking to him? _When did I stop noticing these things?_

Damn it. Erwin had been so focused on seeing an answer to the facility beyond what he knew to be true, that he couldn't see a foot in front of him.

He was blind in the here and now.

He was a god in the futures he could see.

Historia took another deep breath. He listened to the way it hitched in her throat. She was so sad. It didn't take a man with his attention to detail to notice such trivial things. But he knew there was more to this girl than sadness. She had an emptiness to her. And perhaps, maybe, even a cruelness. If she was Armin's sister in more than blood, he could understand it. She seemed to be like him in most sense. And Armin could be a cruel little thing.

"We didn't say anything," she said, loosening her grip on her sleeves. She caught them again in her tiny fists, and wrapped them up around her knuckles. "I told him to, but he just wouldn't listen. When… when Bertholdt and Reiner left, Bertholdt skinned me… and I attacked Armin."

"And this led to a concussion," Erwin said slowly. Her face was stricken, and he shook his head. "I'm not angry, Historia. Please, I only want an explanation. You won't be in trouble for hiding this from me."

"It's not even that," she sighed, rubbing her eyes furiously. "It's that I couldn't… I didn't fight Bertholdt off when I could have. I just let it happen. It was nice to not… be in control for a little while, I don't know. I don't know what I was doing. But then, suddenly, I hit Armin, and his head hit the tub, and oh, Erwin, there was so much blood—"

"He bled?" Erwin peered at her face, but she would not look at him. Her eyes were covered by her skinny hands. "Ah. Well, I'd imagine there'd be some damage then." His panic was easily hidden. He felt sick to his stomach.

She lowered her hands, her expression devoid of emotion. Her lips were parted before she spoke, uncertainties pushing forward. "I was thinking internal bleeding," she admitted in a low, bland tone. "Or bruising. That'd be the reason they'd take a CT scan, right? Just to make sure. And— and I've read about this, I know I have, I made myself read about medicine when I was younger, just in case, um…" She sighed. "I should be able to help, but I can't. I'm sorry."

"It's beyond your control," Erwin said. "You said you've been waiting for three hours?"

"Yeah…" Historia wrung her hands. Her hollow blue eyes moved to Erwin's face, and he could see her internal struggle beneath the stormy glaze of vacuity. "The nurse wouldn't tell me anything. I don't know where he is right now. I told Armin to get the concussion looked at, but he didn't listen to me."

"Armin is…" Erwin struggled to find the right words to describe the boy. "He's very independent. He doesn't want to be a burden on anyone, so if he's not in good shape, he won't say anything. He'd rather deal with it on his own."

"That's stupid," she said dully. "Everyone needs someone."

"Of course he needs people," he sighed, "he just doesn't want to… seem too clingy and needy, I suppose. It's a flaw in him. He's got very little self-regard."

Historia said nothing. She stared at Erwin, her dull eyes softening, and she plopped down beside him. She covered her mouth with her hands, her pink sleeves smothering half her face, and she stared vacantly ahead with her gauzy eyes unmoving. She looked half a dead girl, honestly. But then, Armin looked half a dead boy.

They were mirrors of each other, it seemed.

"How did everything go?" he found himself asking. "Otherwise?"

She lowered her hands in order to speak, but her entire body was stuck frozen in her current position. "Fine. My father told us what we wanted to know. That's what led us here." She flattened out her skirt, her entire body seeming to crumple under the weight of her words. "Our mother is in the Psych Ward."

"Rose," Erwin recalled. Historia said nothing, but she did scratch her wrist, her lips tugging into a frown. "I remember her. How is she doing?"

"She's…" Historia tilted her head, and her lips moved soundlessly as she blinked, her voice struggling inside her throat. She sounded pained. "She's nothing."

Erwin quirked an eyebrow. "Nothing?" he echoed.

She exhaled sharply, digging her nails into her skirt and bunching the fabric between her fingers viciously. "Nothing." She gritted her teeth, and Erwin listened. Molars cracked against one another. Skin hissed against cloth. Her tongue clicked against the roof of her mouth. "Nothing, Erwin, she's nothing. Just… an empty shell… without any mind or… or feelings… or voice… of her own…"

"That's a little unfair to say," he said, watching her face as she turned away. "She's disabled, Historia, you can't blame her for the way she acts."

"Yes," she said. Her voice was thick and dull and coarse. "Fine. I'm a horrible person. I couldn't stand being near her. It made me want to throw up."

Erwin thought about the kind little girl who had appeared to them only weeks before, and he understood. _That girl never existed_, he thought firmly. _There was never Christa. Only Historia_. He'd seen through the lies, of course, and it was a bit of a relief to see her for who she truly was. Human. And hateful. And hurting beyond relief.

"You are not a horrible person." Erwin shook his head, not understanding why these children were filled with such self-hatred. "You're merely directing your anger in the wrong place."

She rubbed her eyes. "Can we just go home?" she asked weakly, turning her red rimmed, hazy gaze to his face. "I have a Chemistry test on Monday, and I'm failing, so…"

"Why don't you get Hange to help you?"

She flushed, her eyes squeezing shut. "I'm very bad at it," she admitted. "I've never really taken science classes before. When… when I was younger, I was taught a lot of things. Lots of reading and writing and history, and even Latin. But never math or science."

"You were taught Latin, but not math?" Erwin couldn't help but smile as she buried her face in her hands. "Your father certainly had his priorities straight."

"I know basic math!" Her voice was muffled by the heavy fabric of her pink jacket. "I just don't get why there are letters! Everywhere! What does that even mean?"

"Have you ever thought about asking Armin for help? He's quite good at math."

"I don't want to bother him with stuff like that," she mumbled. "He works his brain hard enough as it is."

"Alright." Erwin nodded at her. "Tell me what classes you're failing."

She peeked over her hands, her pale hair curling around her eyes. "Um… Chemistry…"

"Yes. Go on."

She swallowed thickly and lowered her hands. "Algebra II Trig… Civics… and, um, Spanish."

That surprised him. "Historia, you know Spanish," he said slowly. "Ymir spoke fluent Spanish. How could you possibly be failing?"

"It's hard…" she said, biting her lip. "It's… I can speak it, a little, because of Ymir, but the… the tests…" She winced. "I'm not a very good test taker…"

"Hm…" Erwin nodded. "Alright. I'm sure Hange would be more than happy to tutor you in Chemistry. If Armin can't help you with Algebra, I'll tutor you in that and Civics. And since Connie withheld some information from us, I think it an apt form of community service to tutor you in Spanish. How does that sound?"

Historia stared at him quizzically, her brow furrowed and her eyes wide. "You'd…?" She didn't seem to know what to say. So instead she nodded. "Um, okay…"

He nodded, patting her once on the head before standing up. It didn't escape his notice how she went rigid upon his touch, but he thought it an innocent gesture. He did it to Armin all the time, and he intended on gaining her trust in some way or another. Baby steps. She was a useful piece in a grand play, yes, but she was important beyond that. Armin saw a future in her that Erwin couldn't. And Erwin always trusted Armin's judgment.

"Excuse me," he said, walking up to the nearest desk. Historia followed him obediently. She kept her distance, however.

"Nanaba," Historia said. The nurse at the desk looked up.

"Oh!" they gasped, eyes flitting between Historia and Erwin. "Is this your father, Historia?"

She glanced up at him warily as he answered for her. "Yes," he said. "I am. Could you tell me what room my son is in?"

Nanaba chewed on their lower lip, and they shook their hand somberly. "No," they said. "Sorry. I haven't been informed of what room he's in, and you'd need the doctor's permission."

"He's my son," Erwin said sharply. "That must mean something."

"It's out of my hands." Nanaba stared at him, their eyes apologetic. They were androgynous, bright eyes, no makeup, tightly trimmed hair, sharp features. Erwin stared them down, feeling that this was not the time to be keeping him from Armin. "I'm sorry."

"But it's been hours," Historia blurted, striding up to the desk and gripping it with her tiny hands. "You must know something!"

Nanaba shook their head. Erwin sensed Historia's rage, and he stepped in quickly. "I'd like to speak with the doctor responsible," he said. "I am Armin's legal guardian, and you cannot keep him here without telling me what the hell is wrong with him."

There was a soft sort of silence. Nanaba's eyes lowered. They sighed. "He asked that no information be disclosed to his family," they said slowly, "until there is a conclusive diagnosis."

"He's sixteen," Erwin said in a very low tone. He watched Historia take a careful step away from him. "He can't keep that sort of information from us."

"Please," Nanaba said desperately, "wait until a doctor comes. I don't know enough to give you the kind of information you want."

"But you _do_ have information!" Historia cried. Erwin placed a hand on her shoulder. When she looked up at him, he shook his head.

"Thank you," he told the nurse in his kindest voice. Inwardly, he felt like kicking the desk over. "We'll wait for the doctor."

Nanaba nodded hesitantly, and Erwin led Historia back to the bench. She was shaking.

"I'm going to punch him," she hissed, her eyes alight with rage and fear. Erwin nearly laughed.

"I'm going to advise against that."

She scrubbed at her eyes, and glared up at the ceiling. She was very clearly not used to being in this position of helplessness. She looked around as Erwin sat down, pressing his folded hands to his lips pensively.

"I'm going to go to the bathroom," she said suddenly, whirling away. Erwin watched her go. If Armin didn't want them to know what was going on, it likely was not good. _Why would he keep this from us? Why can't he understand that closing himself off helps absolutely no one?_ Erwin was anxious to find a doctor, but he was equally dreading the conversation he would have to have. Armin was probably a terrible patient, in that his power would make it difficult to do anything remotely productive.

If Historia's power worked on him, it would make things a hell of a lot easier.

_Historia_.

Erwin jumped to his feet. She'd been gone at least ten minutes. What had he been thinking, letting her wander off in a hospital?

He found her in a room with two children in it. One child was sleeping, curled up in the tiny hospital bed, while their parent was slumbering on the chair at its bedside. The other child was sitting upright, chatting amiably in hushed tones to the tiny blonde girl. She turned her head toward him as he walked in. And suddenly, the entire room sparked a brilliant, mesmerizing gold. He blinked.

The child had gone very quiet, looking puzzled as he squinted. He rubbed his eyes with his fists, his intravenous drip shaking against the back of his hand. Historia stood up, brushing past Erwin, and he followed her out the door without sparing the child another glance.

He caught Historia by the arm as she stalked off.

"You can't just heal people like that," he told her.

"Yes I can." She shrugged him off. "Why can't I? Isn't that what we do? Help people?"

"You can't heal everyone."

"No." She looked up at him, and he saw gold had singed inside her gauzy blue eyes. She was smiling dazedly, looking a little high off her own power. "But I can try."

Erwin studied her face, her starry eyes and her parted lips and the liquid that seemed to leak like molten gold from her tearducts. Bloodshot, red rimmed, gold flecked, cloudy. Her eyes told him she was hardly even there. Her mind was in a haze. Her power had half consumed her, and she was drinking it all in.

"Come with me," he told her sharply. She didn't seem to want to, but after an acute stare, she followed him with unsteady steps. He held her by the shoulders.

They returned to the Pediatric Ward twenty minutes later, two cups of coffee and a sober Historia better for wear. She sipped tentatively at the steaming liquid, looking a little exhausted. She apologized for what he power had done to her, but Erwin assured her it wasn't her fault. He wondered why her power had such an intoxicating effect, however. Perhaps it was a cautionary sign.

"I never thanked you," she said suddenly after some more time had passed. Erwin was keeping an eye out for a doctor, but none had come him way just yet.

"Thank me?" Erwin peered at her, smiling dimly. "What for?"

"Saving Ymir." She took a sip of her coffee, keeping the Styrofoam cup at her lips as she stared sullenly ahead of her. "I guess I didn't really appreciate it then, but I do now. It's better that she's alive… and away from me… than dead by Eren's hand."

"I never intended any harm to her," Erwin said. Though that was not entirely a truth. He had not had any real plan for Ymir. First and foremost he'd wanted to capture her, but beyond that had to be up to discussion. "It's unfortunate she's so lost to us now. It seems as though Eren's no longer out to murder her."

"Yes," she sighed. "I'd like to find her. If that's alright."

"We'll figure something out."

Historia lowered her cup of coffee, glancing at Erwin over the twirling rolls of steam. "Can you not see her future?" she asked confusedly. "She's not with Armin. Shouldn't you know where she'll be?"

"I should," he said. "However, my foresight is not always reliable. And also, strangely, I'm unable to see Ymir's future at the moment."

She snorted into her coffee, and Erwin peered at her, surprised. "Your power kinda sucks," she said quietly.

"I'm plagued by misfortune," he said, chuckling. She smiled minutely, and took another sip of her coffee.

They sat there for another ten minutes, finishing up their coffee and speaking in low tones. Erwin had not expected this day to be so long. It wasn't incredibly bothersome, but the longer they stayed here, the more concerned he grew. His dread was rapidly increasing with every second that passed.

He took Historia's empty cup and went to throw it away in the nearest trashcan down the hall. He stood there for a moment after he disposed of them, and he rubbed his face tiredly. He could weather this, of course. That wasn't the matter at hand. It was Historia and Armin. Whatever happened, could they handle the pressure? He wasn't certain enough to make a gamble on it.

"Erwin?"

He turned slowly, startled at the familiar voice. It took a lot to startle him, but this voice had. The man only just behind him was taller than even Erwin, a scruffy looking man with shaggy hair and a stubby beard. His nose was particularly large, and Erwin found that was the most recognizable feature of his old friend. He smiled wanly.

"Mike," he said, unable to keep his shock out of his tone. "Well, this is a surprise. How are you?"

"Uh, fine." Mike's eyes were wide as he stared at Erwin, his mouth dropping open. "Where's your cane?"

"My…?" Erwin froze. He'd forgotten.

Ah. What a fool he was.

Mike Zacharias studied his face, his expression only growing more and more alarmed. "You can see," he said, very clearly uncertain. Erwin nodded, unable to speak. "That's… damn, Erwin, that's amazing. I could've sworn your vision was permanently impaired."

He smiled grimly. "Yes," he said, "well I suppose the diagnosis was wrong. I've regained full visibility."

"Ha!" Mike grinned broadly. "How about that! Well, I'm glad to hear it. Say, if it's not too much trouble we should grab a few beers and catch up."

Erwin noticed his scrubs for the first time, and he mentally scolded himself for being so inattentive. "You work here," he observed.

"Yeah, went from nursing soldiers to nursing infants." Mike laughed. "Nah, but it's not so bad. It's more rewarding, in a way. So who're you here for?"

Erwin was reluctant to speak. He wasn't prepared for what this unseen future had in store for him. "Armin Arlelt," he said. He watched Mike's face change rapidly, his eyes blinking in alarm as he averted his gaze. "You know him."

"I've been with him," Mike said cautiously. "Yeah…"

"Then you know what's wrong with him?" Erwin took a step forward, searching Mike's face for any sign of what laid ahead. He was only very keen on avoiding eye contact. Which was not a good sign.

"I can't really disclose—"

"Mike," Erwin said sharply, his eyes flashing with fury. "He's my _son_."

And just like that, Mike's expression seemed to crumple. He turned his eyes to Erwin, watching him, searching him, and finding whatever truth he was looking for. He stood, tightlipped and hunched, his eyes softening and hardening and softening again. He looked at Erwin as though he didn't know him, as if the years they had spent as friends had been nothing but a hazy dream.

"I had no idea you had a son," he said tersely.

"It's been awhile, Mike," Erwin said. "There's a lot you don't know about me."

Mike's face was the kind of somber that made him look years and years older than he truly was. Silence stretched before them as Mike gave a short, curt nod. He glanced away, his body coiling with tension. "Follow me," he said.

Erwin nearly did without thinking. "Wait," he said. Mike stopped, and shot him a puzzled look. Erwin turned around, taking a few strides down the hall. "Historia!"

The girl looked up at him, very clearly startled. He waved her over, and she jumped to her feet, moving very slowly at first. Then she broke into a sprint until she was at Erwin's side, her eyes darting wildly between him and Mike. She looked just about ready to sink into the folds of her oversized pink jacket.

"What's wrong?" she asked, her voice breaking. "Is it Armin?"

Mike peered at the girl curiously. "And who's this?" he asked, smiling. Erwin pressed his arm to Mike's chest, shooting him a sharp look.

"My daughter," he said. "Don't sniff her."

"Hey, I'm in a professional work area!" Mike shook his head, his shaggy hair bunching around his ears. "I would never."

"Don't think I buy that for a second." Erwin angled himself so Historia was behind him. "Take us to Armin, Mike."

Mike took a deep breath, glancing between them uncertainly. "Oh," he sighed, "alright. Come on." He ushered them forward, and Erwin felt his stomach churn once more. He grimaced. "I just have to ask you a few questions, Erwin, if that's okay."

"It's fine."

Mike nodded, his broad shoulders moving as he turned completely forward. "How often does Armin get headaches?" he asked.

Erwin stared ahead. "Often," he said quietly.

"Has he experienced any vision changes recently?"

He walked forward. He recollected the time before he'd "permanently" lost his sight. This was all beginning to sound very familiar. "He recently had to get glasses," Erwin said.

"How about unexplained nausea?"

"I'm not sure."

"Vomiting?"

"Yes," Historia blurted. Erwin glanced at her. "Yes, very often."

"How are the sensations in his limbs?"

"I… don't know."

"His balance?"

"Not very good," Historia said.

"Does he have difficulty speaking?"

"I'm not sure what would constitute, but I suppose he does sometimes…"

"Slurred speech, stuttering…" Mike waved his hand. "That sort of thing. What about behavioral changes? Loss of interest, or mood swings?"

"Mike…" Erwin said, staring at the man's back. "What are these symptoms of?"

"Armin has mood swings sometimes…" Historia said quietly. "It's a little creepy."

Mike nodded. "How's his appetite?"

"Nonexistent," she said. "He thinks if he doesn't eat he'll throw up less."

"That's… troubling." Mike glanced back at them. "He might have an eating disorder. I'm going to recommend a nutritionist for him, okay?"

"We live in New York, Mike," Erwin said. "So unless your nutritionist travels…"

"I know a few nutritionists in New York, Erwin, don't you worry." Mike didn't sound very playful at all. It was jarring. "Okay, here's a biggie. Seizures?"

"Once," Erwin said thickly. "Not too long ago."

"How about memory?"

Historia laughed. It was a bitter sound.

"Mike," Erwin said darkly.

Mike paused before a door. He turned to them, and he nodded. "He's in here," he said quietly. Erwin felt a tiny hand at his back, bunching a fistful of his coat anxiously. He looked down at Historia, and saw that she was staring wide eyed, her lips parted and her expression dazed. Mike gave them a sympathetic glance. He pushed open the door.

Of course Erwin had been expecting to see Armin in a hospital bed, but it was still strange. He was a tiny lump in a huge cot, nothing but a candlewick of fluffy yellow hair supporting the theory that there was a boy somewhere within that expansive white mattress. An IV drip ran in a squiggly line down under the thin white covers, disappearing somewhere amongst the empty space and Armin's tiny body. Erwin could hear him breathing soft, shallow breaths.

"He's asleep," Erwin murmured.

"Yeah, we sedated him." Mike shut the door behind them, and Erwin looked at him very sharply. He noticed, and he held up his hands. "Whoa there, it wasn't unwarranted. He told us he has trouble sleeping. As in, he gets an average of half an hour of sleep per night. This week alone he's only slept four hours. Last week he said it might've been six." Mike was now looking at a clipboard, scratching his beard as he frowned. "He doesn't know. He's been losing track of time recently. He can't read the numbers on the clock. He struggles with understanding letters and numbers, and he says sometimes when he does fall asleep he wakes up in strange places, and he hasn't a clue how he got there. He sleep walks. He has hallucinations, Erwin."

Historia turned away, wandering over to Armin's bed and sitting down at the edge. Erwin watched her, feeling sickened and sad. Armin's ragged breaths gave them enough assurance that he was alive under that lump of white, but it was so hard to be sure. Erwin remembered waking up in a hospital bed once. The scents had been excruciating. Antiseptic and bleach. Sick people. Old people. Dead people. But he'd seen none of it. Only the hollow blackness of his own brain.

"Did you know about any of this?" Mike asked.

_No_.

"Somewhat," Erwin said levelly.

"Will we wake him up?" Historia asked, staring at the boy in the bed. "By talking like this?"

"He won't be waking up for a while," Mike said. "Which is a good thing. He needs the rest."

"Mike," Erwin sighed. "I'm tired. What I need right now is for you to tell me what the hell is wrong with him."

Mike closed his eyes. He nodded, and then turned to Historia. "Would it be okay if I talk to your dad alone?" he asked her gently.

She shot him a long, withering look.

"No," she said in a quiet, throaty voice.

He grimaced, his eyes turning to Erwin's face worriedly. Erwin shook his head. "She's not a child, Mike," he said firmly. "She can take it."

"Yeah," Mike sighed, "yeah, okay. Well, the good news is that his concussion is very mild."

Erwin stared at him expectantly. Historia had settled at the corner of Armin's bed, watching the slow rise and fall on his tiny form. Mike was very clearly reluctant about telling them. There could be a number of reasons why. The diagnosis, or the situation, or it could be simply that Mike knew Erwin personally, and his personal feelings were mucking up his judgment.

Mike referred back to his clipboard.

"We performed a CT scan," he said, "and then an MRI scan. The results are not a hundred percent conclusive, as they will have to be looked at by a specialist, but we were able to determine an intracranial growth."

"A tumor," Erwin said. His mouth had gone dry.

Mike nodded. "We're preparing to do a biopsy," he said, "in order to determine if the tumor is malignant or benign."

"It's malignant."

Erwin turned to Historia. Mike's eyes had risen to her as well, his mouth parting in confusion. She glanced between them, and she shrugged. "He had a tumor when he was little," she said.

Mike stared at her in bewilderment, and he came closer to her. "Can you tell me how old he was?" he asked.

She shrugged, plucking at the ends of her skirt. "Between… six and nine, I think…"

Mike took quick note of that. "And the tumor was malignant? You know for sure?"

"I doubt there was anything benign about it." Historia buried her mouth in the collar of her jacket, her eyes dropping to the floor. She looked very small. Very young. Hardly a teenager. And Armin looked like a child too. Perhaps it ran in the family.

"Even so," Mike said, continuing to scrawl onto his clipboard, "we're going to keep him here overnight, and then run some additional tests."

"That's not necessary."

Historia jumped to her feet, whirling to face the bed with wide eyes. Erwin watched as the tiny lump stirred, the white woolen blanket sliding from the boy's hollow face. He was pale. Dazed. He looked about the same as he had that morning. Only now Erwin knew why. It was a strange feeling of emptiness. There wasn't much relief in knowing. Not this time.

"Armin," Mike said, sounding surprised. "You're awake."

"It's hard to stay asleep when you've got tastes going sour inside your mouth," the boy mumbled, his face half-buried in a pillow. Erwin could not for the life of him tell if Armin was drugged, or if he was just feeling particularly candid.

Mike seemed to take it as the former, for he smiled. "Tastes, huh?" He hugged his clipboard. "What kinds of tastes?"

"Something like pine scented airfreshners and lemon peels."

Mike wrote that down. Armin's one visible eye followed the movement of his hand. The boy's dull yellow hair curled against his cheek. "Armin, you understand the severity of your situation, don't you?" Mike asked.

"Mm…" Armin did not lift his head from his pillow. "You mean, do I understand that I'm dying?"

"You're not dying Armin," Mike said firmly.

"That's a matter of perspective."

"Armin…" Erwin said. There was an unspoken warning in his tone that he seemed to catch, for he sat up, his blanket crumpling into his lap.

"I'm sorry," Armin said, his voice soft and slurred. "Please continue. What are my options?"

Mike glanced at Erwin, but did not pause in his response. "Judging by the location of the growth— the fourth ventricle— as well as your age, it's very possible you have an ependymoma tumor. We'll have to remove it as soon as possible."

"Of course," Armin said dully. He huddled in his blanket, staring vacantly ahead. "And if it's inoperable?"

Mike stared at Armin, and Erwin found himself smiling. Armin had an extraordinary ability to make something uncomfortable and make it even more so for anyone who he found grating. And Erwin could tell Armin wasn't very fond of Mike. It wasn't something he could be blamed for.

"We'll determine that after a neurologist looks at your scans," Mike said cautiously. Armin watched him, the corners of his lips quirking upward, but he said nothing. "Hopefully we can remove the growth quickly and efficiently. Armin, I don't want you to be scared. This isn't a death sentence."

"Yeah," he said. "Okay. Thanks, Dr. Zacharias. But can I get treatment for this, um, maybe like… at home?"

Mike grimaced. "That's… not something advisable—"

"I'll sign whatever waivers you need me to sign, you don't have any responsibility if I drop dead on the car ride home." Armin rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"Actually, that's my job," Erwin pointed out.

"Oh." Armin blinked blearily at him, and he nodded. "Right. Erwin will sign. But you might want to give him the papers now, because he's going to dissect every solitary word before he puts a pen to it."

Mike nodded vaguely, and he smirked. "Sounds about right." He jerked his chin. "Erwin, can I talk to you out in the hall for a moment?"

Historia watched them, backing slowly toward Armin until she was sitting on the bed beside him, her dull eyes following their movements toward the door. Mike shut the door behind them. The man took a very deep breath, and he shot Erwin an apologetic glance.

"This isn't going well," he said with a weak little laugh. "I… damn, I'm usually better at these sort of things."

"It's fine," Erwin said. "In all honesty, I don't think any of us are surprised. But what we really need right now, Mike? It's home. We can't stay the night."

"You can't let something like this go, Erwin." Mike's eyes were narrowed, and he clapped a hand against Erwin's shoulder. "We don't know how long it's been growing, and leaving it alone only increases the risks."

"I appreciate everything you've done," he said, "truly. But one night won't kill him, and all he wants is to go home. Out of curiosity, how did he react when the nurses had to touch him?"

Mike looked puzzled. His brow knitted together beneath his shaggy fringe of hair, and he frowned. "Actually, he asked that we wear gloves," he said. "He said skin contact makes him highly uncomfortable, to the point of panic attacks. We thought it'd be best to minimize that kind of behavior, since he'd need to keep still during the scans."

"He's very sensitive, yes." Erwin didn't know how else to describe it. But he supposed he shouldn't be surprised that Armin had found a way around forging unwanted connections with the nurses and doctors who treated him. It was Armin, after all.

"Erwin." Mike gave him a long, level stare. "It's really not as bad as it seems."

"You know," he said, smiling dimly, "people told me that when I lost my eyesight."

Mike's smile was wan, and it was close to crumbling as he swatted Erwin playfully on the ear. "Hey, see!" He nodded firmly. "And you got better!"

Erwin found himself shooting Mike a dark look. This was not what he wanted to hear, and it seemed Mike caught on, because he bowed his head. "He's been through a lot," Erwin mused aloud. "He didn't need this."

"I'm sorry," Mike said, looking and sounding very earnest. "He's a good kid. But trust me, he's got good chances. I can recommend some really good surgeons. Hell, I'll make it my priority to get him exactly what he needs to make a full recovery."

"Mike, you don't—"

"Nah, I do." Mike smiled. "I'll go get the forms you'll need to discharge him. I'll schedule him in to get looked at by a specialist in Brooklyn on Monday, since the scans should be verified by then. You live near Brooklyn, right?"

"Yeah," Erwin said. "That's… that's perfect. Thank you."

Mike snorted. "Not even a problem." He squeezed Erwin's shoulder reassuringly. "Actually, one question."

_Of course_, Erwin thought amusedly. "Shoot."

"Why does he call you Erwin?" Mike moved very slowly past him, watching Erwin as he went. "And not dad?"

"He's not my biological son." Erwin ran a hand through his hair, feeling his scalp and closing his eyes. "Neither of them are really mine."

"Ah," Mike smiled grimly. "That explains a few things."

"Yeah. You'll probably need to take that into account, since you can't look at my medical history for answers."

"Very true." Mike winked. "Always thinking, you are."

Erwin shook his head in disbelief. It was strange how his old friends seemed so keen on being loyal to him. He couldn't say it was surprising, exactly. He knew he was charismatic. He utilized that. But after years and years of silence, these men still remained friends to him. Amazing.

"It's pure, unadulterated talent, I imagine," he said.

Mike laughed, backing away slowly. "Hey, do me a favor," he said, pointing at him as he retreated. "_Talk _to him. And don't make him feel like he's broken, or something. He doesn't need any of that bull."

"I'll keep that in mind," Erwin said, nodding distantly. He watched Mike disappear down the hall, and he stood for a moment in the perpetually off-white corridor that stretched endlessly from side to side. Erwin closed his eyes, and he tried. He imagined Armin's face, and her pushed through the fogs of his mind, begging for some inkling of a future. But there was nothing. Just a familiar inky blackness.

There was too much irony in Armin blinding him.

Erwin reentered the room, finding Historia and Armin facing each other, sitting cross-legged on the bed. They'd stopped talking upon his appearance, two pairs of dull blue eyes falling on his face in synchronized tilts of the heads. How eerie these two were.

Historia climbed off the bed, smoothing out her skirt. "I'm going to get you food," she said suddenly, staring at nothing in particular.

"Historia—" Armin objected as he struggled to sit upright.

"Shut up."

She moved past Erwin, her head bowed, and he stopped her at the door. "Don't make any extra stops," he warned her. She stared at him vacantly, and then puffed out her cheeks in indignation. She nodded curtly and brushed past him, hurrying out the door.

Erwin stood, his back to the door, and Armin watched him with his vague, distant gaze. He pulled up his knees to his chest and embraced them tightly. Erwin watched, uncertain and unable to move. Armin looked so much younger than he truly was, with big eyes and pouty lips. His hair was disheveled around his head, a mop of unruly yellow strands.

"Hey," Erwin said.

Armin studied him, resting his cheek against his knees. He was very quiet, and Erwin wondered if it was a struggle for Armin to see him. He didn't have his glasses on, after all. Erwin made up his mind and took a few long strides to Armin's bed, until he was directly at his side. His eyes trailed upward, focusing on Erwin's face.

"Hi." He straightened his neck, blinking a little dazedly. "So."

"So…"

It was an awkward silence, short and full of anxiety and tension. They both knew exactly what was the matter, and it was difficult to process. Erwin wondered how he felt about all this. If he was relieved to know what was wrong, or if he was terrified. It was all very strange. Sadness wasn't the feeling, exactly. More like… an absence of understanding. The world seemed suddenly too big.

"I'm sorry you had to wait so long," Armin said quietly.

"Don't be silly."

"It wasn't supposed to take this long…" Armin closed his eyes, resting his body back against his pillow. "Maybe it would've been better if we never came. Historia's upset about our mom, and I don't think talking to Reiss did her any good. And then this happened."

"Armin." Erwin sat down near his feet, turning his body to face him. They were now almost eyelevel. His eyes opened hesitantly, and he squinted at Erwin's face. "How long have you known?"

He smiled vacantly. He tilted his head, his eyes cast down toward his knees. "Since my seizure," he said.

"_Armin_!"

The boy sat up straight, dropping his knees and staring into Erwin's eyes. "It's not important, Erwin," he said, his voice hoarse. "It's not a priority. I… I didn't want to distract everyone from… from what was really important. I didn't want to be a burden."

"Armin, this is your _life_." Erwin could not contain his anger. How? How could someone have such little self-regard? Had Armin learned nothing? "You are important. You are a priority. You need to get it out of your head that you're a burden."

Armin bowed his head. There was clearly a lot going on in it that Erwin would never understand, but this was ridiculous. He couldn't keep putting himself down in favor of other things that he deemed more important. It was a little frustrating.

Of course, Erwin struggled with his perception of the value of human life. But not Armin's. Armin's life meant something.

It possibly meant everything.

"The institute," Armin whispered, his eyes rising hesitantly to meet Erwin's. "It was never about… about creating human weapons."

Erwin tilted his head. "Excuse me?"

"Erwin." Armin's eyes were suddenly very wide. "D-don't you see it? The experimentation was never about creating a destructive force, it was… it was about healing."

"Armin—"

"Armin Arlelt, brain tumor," he cut in, and his eyes brightened considerably under his resolve. "Historia Reiss, comatose. Eren Jaeger, muscular dystrophy. Annie Leonhardt, leukemia. Reiner Braun, lung cancer. Bertholdt Hoover, melanoma. My mother had a severe type of epilepsy that went without medication for a really long time. Levi had HIV. Connie was hit by a car, and then Ilse came along and gave him something that made him be able to walk again. Rico said she was sick when she was approached about the institute. And you…" Armin tilted his head, smiling grimly. "You went blind after you hit your head in Afghanistan, and left the concussion unchecked."

Erwin sat, feeling stunned as he let this sink in. How had it never occurred to him before? Of course, he'd gone into the facility knowing they were going to try and get his eyesight back. But he'd always assumed there had been some sort of ulterior motive beyond that. But, as a collective, it did seem like their goal had been to cure an array of different maladies.

"And… Mikasa and Ymir?" Erwin watched Armin's face as his smile tightened. "What was wrong with them?"

"Nothing… at least, not with Mikasa." Armin rubbed his temples, and he grimaced. "I think there's something else up with Mikasa. And Levi. They're… both Ackermans, right?"

"I haven't a clue if that means they're related."

"Well, I think they're connected somehow. Mikasa was never sick, as far as I know, and I've got no idea about Ymir. Maybe Eren knows something, or Connie, or Petra." He scratched at his knuckles, staring dazedly into space. "The trouble is, I guess, that my illness came back. When I… when I realized what was wrong with me, I was mostly concerned about the idea that maybe…"

Erwin's heart sank into his chest.

"The positive effects of the procedures might not be permanent," Erwin finished.

Armin glanced at him. He sat in his hospital bed, looking half a corpse as he smiled. His bony shoulders rose and fell. "There were so many side effects," he said, leaning back and forth, his body swaying to in fro as though he was an impatient child waiting to be given a cookie. "It was always experimental, Erwin. But, if this is happening, then I would like it to start and end with me."

Very suddenly Erwin tried to imagine a life without Armin. It was as if every future open to him had gone black. What would all this work amount to if Armin could not witness it? Erwin had urged Armin to become a hero out of faith that Armin's abilities could change the future. But it had been too long since Erwin had seen a future with Armin in it.

"You won't die," Erwin said.

Armin blinked. Dull eyes. Blue eyes. They seemed to be the most colorful thing in this room. "You don't know that."

"Does it matter if I know something for certain?" He reached out, and he took Armin's hands. They felt oddly cold. Soft, but cold. And bony. And small. And Erwin felt as though he had missed something crucial in raising this boy. He must have done something wrong. The blame was inevitably pinned on him. He'd rightfully bear it.

Armin smiled. Chapped lips. White lips. They stretched into a thin little line. "I'm so glad you didn't see this coming," he whispered.

His words echoed inside Erwin's brain. They were a dull thrum, like an old song that had been overplayed and reduced to nothing but a vacuous tune. A tune he knew well.

_But I did_, he thought, feeling sickened by his own failure. He stared at Armin's tiny, bony hands, and squeezed them tightly.

Erwin had made a lot of not so nice choices in his life. He'd lived with them. His current position as a pacifist made him feel a little at ease with his crimes, but even still. He'd compromised too many times in his life for him to be deemed a good person by any standard. Perhaps that was what his crusade had been all about. Atonement. Self-assurance. He'd wanted something good to come out of what he'd done, and what had been done to him. And he supposed Armin was the complicated crux of the solution. He'd pushed Armin into a future that he wanted so badly, and now there wasn't any future that had Armin in it. How cruel.

Something warm and wet hit his knuckles. Beneath his hands, Armin's were quaking, and his body was no different. He shook like a leaf in a torrential downpour, and he sniffled, turning his face away in shame as he attempted to wipe away his tears on his shoulder. Erwin let go of his hands, and he quickly tackled the thick streams of tear tracks that glistened on his flushed cheeks. His breaths were hollow and thin, and his lips were parted as he covered his eyes, shaking his head profusely.

"I'm sorry," he gasped, "I'm sorry…"

"Shh," Erwin hushed, edging closer and taking him by the shoulders. "You don't need to apologize, I understand your reasoning. But reason isn't everything."

"I'm tr-trying to see a bright s-side," he hiccupped, curling into himself. His voice was strained, thick with tears, and a sob was perched upon his tongue. "I… I don't know. I'm scared, Erwin…"

"It's okay," Erwin whispered, pulling Armin to his chest as the sob he'd been holding was released, crackling against the air like a burst of electricity. He felt as though his brain had been fried. His fingers were jerky as they combed slowly through Armin's hair, helplessly trying at some semblance of comfort. "Armin, it's fine to be scared. Everyone gets scared."

He didn't respond. He clutched at Erwin's coat, grasping fistfuls of it as he sobbed into his chest, hiccupping and shaking and coughing and wheezing. Every once and a while he'd throw in a choked, "I'm sorry…" Erwin held him tightly, feeling as though he'd gone back in time, and this was that terrified little stranger who'd followed him out of a fire. It was hard to accept that this was a truth, that they would have to deal with this, address it, treat it. And if they failed, it could be fatal.

Erwin felt like crying too.

He kissed the top of Armin's head as his sobs began to die down. He smelled familiar, a strange mingling of ink and dust and something sweet, such a different smell than the antiseptic sting of the hospital around them. He listened as his sobbing drifted into soft, heavy breaths, and his forehead rested against Erwin's chest as he sniffled. Erwin rubbed slow circles around his back, listening to him hiccup and feeling him burrow his face further into the folds of Erwin's jacket.

They were both very quiet for a few minutes. There was a knock at the door. Armin pulled away from Erwin, sinking into his cot and turning onto his side. "Dr. Zacharias," he murmured.

Erwin nodded, rising to his feet. He made his way to the door, shooting a glance back at the boy. He was curled up under the blanket again, his breaths back to being ragged and shallow. Perhaps they were always like that, and Erwin had never noticed. He left the door open as he exited, turning his back to Armin.

"Mike." Erwin nodded to the man as he handed over a thin packet of papers.

He began to read through the forms he'd been given. Ultimately, it seemed straightforward. He filled out the papers, thankful for the health benefits he had as a result of his service. It wasn't as tedious as Armin had bemoaned about. It had actually been quite simple. He handed to forms back to Mike, and he flipped through them quickly, nodding.

"Well," he said. He entered Armin's room, and Erwin followed. "Looks good. Let me just get the IV out, and then he can get dressed into his regular clothes… wait, what the hell?"

The bed was empty.

At the corner of the carefully made cot, Armin's hospital gown was folded neatly.

Erwin would never understand that boy.

"How…?" Mike looked around the room wildly, whirling in place with a slackened jaw. Erwin turned away, nodding to Mike curtly.

"Don't worry about it, Mike," he said. "Thank you for everything you've done. If you're ever in New York, you have my contact information.

"Erwin, your son just fucking disappeared," Mike stated in a flat tone. "Can you explain that?"

"I could, actually," he said, backing cautiously away from the man. "However, I don't really have the time. And you might need a few drinks to really process it. Maybe another time."

"You're kidding me."

"Afraid not." Erwin stalked toward the door, feeling furious and distraught. "Goodbye, Mike."

"Uh, _bye_?"

He couldn't have gotten far. He had to still be in the building. Erwin pulled his phone from his pocket and checked where Armin's phone was. It wasn't difficult to track. A floor down. _Okay_, Erwin thought, striding forward. _Okay, he must have a reason. Armin doesn't do things without a plan. There's something I'm missing in what he's feeling._

"Erwin?"

Historia was standing at the landing of the stairs outside the Pediatric Ward. She had a bag of chips in her arm, and a bottle of chocolate milk. Erwin gestured her to follow him as he headed down the steps. She quickly fell in time with him, her eyes widening as they went.

"Wait, what's going on?" she asked slowly. "We can't be going, can we…? Where's Armin?"

"He ran off," Erwin said. "I'm tracking his phone right now."

"What?" She didn't sound too surprised, which made Erwin wonder how well she knew Armin. If she truly did know him better than he did. "Why?"

"Historia, I've already told you." Erwin exited the stairwell, pushing through a pair of doors and finding himself in an elongated hallway. "I don't think I'll ever understand Armin."

She followed him down the length of the corridor, her head whipping around slowly. "This feels weird," she said. The hall was like the rest of the hospital. Off-white everywhere, in a blindingly bleached out sort of way. The expanse of the hall seemed to go on and on both ways. A tunnel to nowhere. Erwin paused. He dialed Armin's number. "Erwin… I don't like this."

The sound of distant ringing filled the empty hall. Erwin whirled around, pulling his phone from his ear in order to get a better grasp on where the ringing was coming from. "There's something…" Historia whispered. He moved down the hallway, growing more and more determined as the sound's volume increased. It was like a steady thrum in his head. An echo of words he wished he'd never heard. _I'm so glad you didn't see this coming_. "I don't know… hazy…" Her voice was a comfort, if nothing else. It reminded him what he was listening to. The sound was blasting in his ears. "It just doesn't feel right here."

Erwin stopped before a potted plant beside an exit door. The blaring red sign burned into Erwin's retinas. He stood, his phone gripped in hand, and he listened to Historia's soft footfalls as she neared him.

"Armin's not here," she said quietly, "is he?"

Erwin stared vacantly ahead.

"No," he said, fishing the boy's phone out from between the snaggled roots of the plant inside the pot. "He doesn't want us to find him."

"Are you sure…?"

Erwin peered at the screen. He stared at it, and he understood one thing for certain about Armin. He could not be pinned down.

He turned the phone to Historia.

It said: _Found lead, got to follow. Don't tell others about tumor. Love you both_.

_Sorry._

* * *

_Well. There it is._

_Mm, I think I got emotional at some point during this chapter, but I can't remember when or why. Anyways, shout out to Bec for reassuring me while I was writing this chapter. Honestly, I was a little apprehensive about it because I understand that the storyline could be problematic, but it's something I've actually had planned out since chapter one. Seriously, not many things are like that. _

_Another thing I'd like to note is that I'm actually a little familiar with the effects of brain tumors, since my grandma had one, and I do have vague recollections of how that affected her. I understand that it sort of just eats away at your personality, and I can't even imagine what that must be like. But yeah, I don't remember too much of it because she lived five hours away and, frankly, I think I just really isolated those memories and decidedly ignored a lot of what was happening around me when I was around her._

_Illness is... um, well, it makes people uncomfortable. That's the thing. I'm not immune to that. People just don't know how to act when a person is sick. I was trying really hard to get into Armin's head with this, to try and understand what he might be feeling with all of this on top of the bullshit he already had to deal with._

_As excited as I was to write this chapter, it's probably best to keep in mind that I'm not an expert, and this could probably still be insensitive, even though I tried really hard. I'm not sure how much of a twist this even really is. Steph ended up guessing it yesterday when I asked her to tell me her theories. But I hope it explains a few things pertaining to Armin's behavior up until this point._


	27. i shall not all die

**non omnis moriar**

**salem, massachusetts**

_a.d. iii non. nov., 2766 a.u.c._

The musk of pine and the tang of lemon hadn't been the tastes to awake him. It had been the familiar ghost of cookie dough and something else, something daunting, something dastardly, something unlike anything else. Something like poison. Maybe it was his own mind he tasted. Maybe he'd been tasting something malignant inside his own head all this time, and he hadn't even noticed.

He didn't know.

He couldn't know.

Armin sat on an empty seat on a bus that would take him from DC to Massachusetts. Slipping past Erwin had been easy. He knew Erwin's attention would be undivided on those release forms. He'd stripped down, tugged on his jeans and buttoned up his shirt, made his bed, and folded up his gown. He hadn't put on his shoes, because they made too much noise against the linoleum. And then he'd simply slipped past him. Carefully, slowly, holding his breath, keeping his body pressed against the wall. There was something strange about his invisibility. It worked with Erwin.

Now he watched the starlight spread out across the great expanse of blackened sky. The stars were nothing but elongated blurs from the view Armin had through the foggy window. He hugged his knees to his chest. Travelling was so easy when you were invisible.

He'd woken up in a hospital bed to the taste of cookie dough and bile. He recalled being a little disgusted with himself, because this was not what he'd intended. In all fairness, he probably would have gone to a doctor after things had calmed down. Now that it was confirmed, though, would he be able to ignore it?

"I guess the jig is up, then," Marco had said. He was sitting on the floor, squeezed between the IV drip and Armin's bed. He was a distant and hazy thing, barely even there. Armin had to squint to see him, and he was right in front of his face. Armin had been so sleepy. It was so nice to feel sleepy. He felt like he was floating, his mind in a haze and his body somewhere on the brink of dissipating, and it felt nice. Seeing Marco made everything feel gross. Armin supposed it'd be nice when they got the tumor out, and Armin wouldn't have to see him anymore. "Now you know."

"I always kinda knew…" Armin had whispered, his face half buried in his pillow. "Some part of me always knew. I was just too blind to see it."

"That's my fault," Marco sighed. "Sorry."

Armin had felt discontent. Like he was talking to a brick wall, or running into one, over and over and over. His mind was peppered with sad thoughts and his mouth was heavy with thick, goopy sad tastes, and it was all so sad here, in this place, and it made him feel sick and dizzy. He wanted to go back to sleep.

"Why Marco?" Armin had asked, his voice a distant murmur. In the glaze of his vision, he saw the hallucination cock his head and blink confusedly. "Why do you always go back to him?"

The hallucination smiled. "Doesn't it haunt you?" he whispered back, edging closer and closer until Armin could count the freckles that were burned into his nose like a thousand little scars. Armin couldn't find it in him to care. The proximity didn't scare him. Nothing about this thing could scare him. "How you could've saved him…? If you had just paid attention a little? If you had just listened?"

"I couldn't have saved him," Armin sighed, closing his eyes. "I'm not stupid. There was no way I could've fought off Annie."

"She wouldn't have hurt you."

He cracked open an eye. The hallucination was on the other side of the room. In his hopeless high he could see the hazy shade of yellow hair that suggested the hallucination had changed. Armin was staring at himself as he spun slowly in place, his head craned up toward the ceiling.

"She might have…"

"Nah," said the boy who looked like him. "No, I think she liked us too much to hurt us. Think about it. She wanted to tell us something, didn't she? She was so keen on it, too. She trusted us."

"And then she killed Marco," Armin had muttered, pulling his blanket over his head. "And everything started to suck."

"Did she really want to kill him though?" His own voice drifted from somewhere in the room, knocking on the doors of his mind and slipping in through the cracks. "Sure, she's pretty nasty, we'll give her that, but she wanted too badly to be good. It just didn't really work out for her in the end."

"I don't get what you're saying…"

"Armin." The blanket slid back, and Armin had blinked up at Eren's face, squinting in confusion. He was mesmerized by how perfect the hallucination was. From what Armin could see, every detail of Eren's face was perfect. From the warm brown hue of his skin, the way it stretched across his cheekbones and sunk into his eyes, the way little white scars drew across his chin and his forehead and his hands, scars from before he was given an ability and scars from his ability healing his skin in mismatched colors. Eren was so close that Armin could see the glow of his eyes, the arrangement of teal crystals, the pattern like frozen slates of ocean waves stitched together on a miniscule scale. It was beautiful, but a little terrifying.

"Why can't you just stay one person…?" Armin had groaned, burying his face in his pillow.

"Armin, look at me."

He had. It was just the same, only he looked hazier, and the world tasted fouler, and Armin had felt like he was going to puke. He felt a hand on his cheek, and it felt soft and real and strange, but Armin had to tell himself that it wasn't, it wasn't, it wasn't. He sat up straight, blinking blearily into the face of nothing, and choking on his own fear, because he hated this uncertainty, and it wasn't fair that he couldn't comprehend his own mind anymore.

"It hurts," the thing that looked like Eren whispered, holding Armin by the chin, "right? But you're so smart… you can pull through it. So won't you think for me? Think about Annie. She wanted to tell you something."

Armin didn't understand why these hallucinations were so vivid, and yet, so incredibly hazy. He felt this thing touching him, a thumb and forefinger grasping his chin, turning his head up. But they were uncontrollable, and frightening, and he wanted so badly to be alone in his own head. He'd give almost anything.

"I don't know…" Armin whispered. "Annie… she was… she was keeping something from us, of course… but how could I possibly know what she wanted to tell me…?"

"Think," said Eren. The boy smiled, and it was so nice to see, and too terrible to look at. Armin closed his eyes. "You know. She knew. It's not a secret anymore."

Armin's eyes snapped open. He sat up straight, staring into the dark face of this blurry Eren, this thing that was pressing into his brain, and his mouth dropped open. "She knew," he gasped, his voice slow and slurred and sloppily used from the drugs running through his system. "She knew… that I was sick…?"

"Think about those robots," Eren said eagerly. "You were so sure that robot was Annie. It looked like her. It had her power."

"It looked at me," Armin whispered, "as if it could see right through me…"

"Maybe," Eren gasped, his voice too slow. Armin's brain had already formulated his next words. "Maybe it was like a check up. Maybe that entire attack was formulated to get everyone… from the institute…"

"Together…" Armin's heart had thudded in his chest. "They used the technology in the robots to… make sure we were all still healthy… without giving away the true intention of the institute."

"You're so smart," Eren laughed, pressing his forehead to Armin's. "I'll be sad when we won't get to have these little talks anymore."

"You're creepy," Armin had sighed. He let this information settle inside his brain, and the more he thought about it the more it made sense. The attack had been so random, and the robots had… had been careful not to actually harm civilians. So had it worked, then? Had the robots determined who was sick again, and who was not?

"I don't know…" Eren said quietly, his eyes bright and unreal as they searched Armin's face. "I bet Annie knows, though."

"How am I supposed to talk to Annie?" Armin whispered bitterly.

"You're so smart," Eren said, his voice echoing in Armin's head. He put to fingers to Armin's temples, bright eyes sparkling madly. "You're so strong. Use your power. You can find her."

"That's impossible," Armin blurted, his eyes flashing wide. "No way. I can't use my connection to track someone like that, I'm not powerful enough!"

"Shh," Eren cooed. "Yes you are."

"No—"

The sensation of lips on his was almost nonexistent, numbed by drugs and reality, but it was there, and it was startling, and he sat frozen in place as he blinked rapidly, watching the strange formation of green crystals that gathered inside the circumference of Eren's irises. He had to choke back a scream. He remembered once he'd been kissed by Annie in a dream, but that had been so quick, he hardly remembered it.

_Not real_, he thought, the skin around his mouth itching. _Not real, not real_…

He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling an almost feeling of pressure deepening on his lips before disappearing altogether. He sat, heat flooding his face as he considered this situation, and felt sickened by touch and not being touched. It was an oddity, and he had no idea what to make of it, because if it had been anyone else, aside from perhaps Mikasa, Armin would have puked on spot.

When he opened his eyes, he was alone. He could hear his own shallow breath, and he rubbed his face furiously, running his nails over his lips and wondering if it'd make him feel better to scratch at the tender skin until it tore. What would a real kiss be like, if imaginary kisses made him feel so terrified? It wasn't very fair.

There was something clutching at his mind, a line of a thought that trickled slowly like rainwater gathering inbetween the veins of a leaf. The thought froze over in a winter gust, and Armin winced, clutching at his head and taking a deep breath, tears gathering in his eyes. _Annie_, he thought, grabbing hold of the severed link he'd had with the girl, the frozen chain of thoughts and feelings that he had been unable to fully grasp. He tasted freezerburn and it made him nearly gag. _Annie,_ he thought desperately, clawing on that thin little ribbon of a thought that connected their minds. It hurt. But he could sense her, somewhere, her thoughts an icy wall that he could not climb.

The overwhelming taste of pine and lemon forced him to lie back down and drag his blanket over his head, his breathing heavy and his body curling as he blinked back tears. _Annie_.

It wasn't as hard as he'd thought it would be, following her taste. He'd decided to stop trying to fight off the pain, and just let it wash over him. After a blinding, white hot moment, everything seemed to fall into place, and suddenly he was sitting on a bus and watching the black blur of trees pass him by as the night drew onward, and his heartbeat tried to recover from the pain of all but smashing his head through an mental wall.

His decision to leave the hospital had been rather quick. He didn't over think it. He had a hold on Annie's mind, and he took advantage of that. He knew he'd have some explaining to do. He was prepared for that. But he knew that if he was going to face Annie, he'd have to do it alone. And if he'd told Erwin about going, Erwin would stop him. Because his health was more important.

But that was exactly why he hadn't told anyone about his illness in the first place.

Armin got to make the decisions about where his life went. If he ended up dying because of this thing, so be it. He could at least make sure that the others wouldn't suffer the same fate.

The bus kept going. Armin didn't know off the top of his head how long the trip would take, but he assumed it'd be awhile. He simply sat, invisible, feeling a little lost in too many ways to adjust to.

He was thinking about Eren and Mikasa. How worried they'd be. He was thinking about Historia, how sad she was, and how he'd probably messed up any chance he had at becoming a real friend to her. He could only hope they'd be understanding about this, but he didn't hold his breath. He knew this was not going to be seen in a positive light, no matter how it went down.

Technically he hadn't been kissed, and even if he counted imaginary kisses, his first kiss would have to go to the dream version of Annie that had tried to drown him, not the Eren hallucination. It wasn't really a big deal, he didn't think. He wondered what Eren would say when he told him. He couldn't imagine he'd react negatively.

He had no idea what time it was, but he assumed it was past midnight, because it had been quite a long time, and it had been nearly eight by the time the bus had left the station. That meant it was November third.

His birthday.

Oops.

He buried his face in his knees, and made up fake conversations with his friends in his head, thinking up ways to apologize, playing out scenarios where everything was okay and scenarios where everything went wrong. Eventually he fell asleep, too exhausted and still a little bit too drugged to stand lucidity. It was a nice, vacuous, dreamless sleep. He was so glad for that.

He woke up when the bus stopped. He exited with the mass, careful not to bump into anyone as he fled, still invisible. In his head, he felt the pressure of Annie's mind has he got closer and closer to it. He stopped in the bus station's bathroom, peering at his reflection as he made himself visible again. He looked gaunt and sad, his dull eyes sunken inside his face and his hair sticking to his pasty cheeks, his lips chapped and parted, and his teeth white and a little crooked when he tried to smile. His shirt was too baggy, even when he rolled it up, and it was too thin for the harsh November wind anyway. His jeans hardly even clung to his hips, he was so skinny.

How had he let himself waste away so rapidly?

He flicked on the faucet and splashed some cold water onto his face to wake himself up. The world was still a little hazy, and he supposed he should be thankful he had his glasses. He was also thankful for the nausea medication the doctors had given him. He might've gotten carsick otherwise.

Once more he peered at his reflection. His powers had grown considerably, it seemed. He could do things he hadn't imagined ever being able to do a few months ago.

He wondered how far he could take it.

He dragged his hands across his cheeks, a mental command coming to light as the skin he touched went from sallow and thin to rosy and bright. He covered his face completely, and thought very hard, his mind stretching into the folds of what he knew was reality, and he parted it with a thought. When he pulled his hands away, he took a step back in alarm.

Historia was staring back at him.

Rosy cheeks and plump lips and wide eyes and silky hair. A healthy girl, wearing the same white button down and jeans, only they seemed to actually fit her lithe frame. Armin swallowed thickly, his mouth parted in awe. Historia's plump little lips drew back into an O, and as he touched his face, she touched hers.

This was…

This was _amazing_!

He grinned in disbelief, and she grinned back. He twirled around, and her hair flew around her head in a soft whirl of bright yellow, settling at her shoulders gracefully. He could hardly believe it. He'd done this. He'd made himself look like Historia, and it was so easy! It was just like making himself invisible, only it required just a little bit more focus. He had to visualize Historia as he kept focus, which was a little difficult, but nothing he wasn't used to. And the result was mesmerizing.

The door to the bathroom opened as he gaped at his reflection, and he jumped as a man said, startled, "Jesus! What're you doing in here, kid?"

He looked at the man, his tiny hands gripped the sink, and he glanced back at the mirror. Historia's bewildered stare greeted him. Ah. Right. Men's room.

"Sorry!" he cried, his voice hoarse and a little boyish as he rushed past the man. Armin touched his throat as he stumbled out into the terminal, focusing on the thought of Historia's face as he walked very slowly through the station. He took a deep breath, and schooled his features. He could easily turn back into himself, but… where was the fun in that?

Nah. He was gonna see what happened.

He flattened out the wrinkled from his shirt, reminded that Historia had a tendency to do that when she was anxious, and he straightened his shoulders back and walked out the door. He was greeted with the brutal whip of November wind, harsh and biting at his bare skin and whipping his hair all about his head in a twirl of yellow. Historia's hair was much longer, and he blinked as golden strands blinded him in spite of not truly being there, flying in a long succession to the left of him as the wind picked up and sliced at his ears and neck. He hugged himself, grimacing a little. At least he had his gloves.

He wrangled his hair, pushing it back as he looked around blearily. He pushed up his glasses, which he had forgotten he'd had on, and he took a deep breath.

"I'm Christa," he said, his voice breaking a little. He walked away from the door of the bus station, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walked. He winced, and tried again, focusing his memory. Historia sounded very sweet, always, like she was perpetually a child kindly asking for a cookie. "I'm Christa Lenz!"

That time it sounded better. He could only pick up his own voice from the accent. Historia had a mixture of different accents floating in her childlike tone, while Armin's accent had developed in Baltimore. Subtle difference, but a difference nonetheless. He had to wrangle it somehow.

It was very late. Or maybe early, depending on how one looked at it. Armin was freezing, his body coiling against the vicious wind, and frost clinging to the rim of his glasses. His breath was a puff of mist that blew outward from his lips, a little cloud of fog writhing around his head. He was following the frosty trail in his head, pulling on a chain that gave his mind frostbite, and he wandered forth into the darkness, his sneakers scuffing against sidewalks, his heart thundering in his chest.

He supposed Salem was as spooky at night as any other place. But even at what Armin could only assume was a witching hour there were cars whizzing past, and the streetlamps directed him forward through the yawning early-morning darkness. He felt a little dizzy from walking, and lightheaded from the cold, and he tried to remember when he had last eaten, and regretted not getting something from Historia when he'd had the chance. Even if the thought of food nauseated him, no food at all was worse.

Annie's mind was so close, he felt as though his entire body was about to freeze over. He could even taste her springtime thoughts, the jittery caution and the wariness that struggled beneath the icy exterior. He wondered what she was doing here. Certainly this wasn't where the institute was… right?

Armin swallowed thickly as he paused at the entrance to an alley. He thought he could trace Annie into one of these buildings, but what if he was wrong? It was so late, and he wasn't exactly equipped to stand a mugging. He hugged his arms, rubbing them as his teeth chattered and his eyes darted frightfully, and he took a step forward, choking on the ice chip presence of Annie Leonhardt, so close it made his heart hurt.

He followed the narrow alley cautiously, keeping close to the wall and feeling a shadowy presence behind him. Great. Just fucking great. He squinted through the darkness, spotting a door that was slightly ajar, light pooling softly from the sliver of a crack. There was a garbage bag beside the stoop. Someone was clearly taking out their trash, and would be back. Okay. Okay, yeah. He could work with that.

The person behind him tasted like the ash of cigarette butts and some cinnamon gum. And also, at the moment, vodka. Great. Even better. A drunk. Armin was so close, why did this have to happen now? He shot a glance behind him as the person came nearer.

"Hey," the man cooed, "hey, there… you lost, honey?"

Gross.

"Um, no," Armin said, straightening up in order to appear more confident. "I'm not."

"No?" He came nearer, and Armin stared at the door expectantly. _Come on_, he thought. _Someone come out_. "'Cause you look kinda lost."

Armin glowered at the man. _Keep walking_, he thought at the man furiously. _Keep on walking_. The mental nudge was strong enough. Armin figured it'd do. Plus, he could taste Annie's presence, so sharp and clear he could almost cry from relief. She was in this building. She was coming closer. Crap, what was he even gonna say to her? Crap.

The man suddenly grabbed him by the arm, and Armin let out a shriek of alarm. Crap! He dug his heels into the concrete, blinking rapidly into the darkness to get a look at where the man actually was. His glasses had fallen off, crashed against the concrete and cracked. Armin wasn't strong enough to hurt him, even if he tried. He could taste the stale beer taste of this man's emotions, which consisted mostly of lust.

"Let go of me!" Armin cried, listening to his voice carry out across the emptiness of the early morning. The man laughed, and surprised Armin yet again by yanking at his arm. _Okay, I can't wait any longer_, he thought anxiously. He screamed. Loudly. He twisted in place, pulling back on his arm and gritting his teeth in frustration. Yes, he'd been trying to use this guy to lure Annie out, but this was getting a little too uncomfortable.

The door burst open, and Armin was overwhelmed with icicle blast that was Annie Leonhardt's absolute rage. It was zero degrees Kelvin inside Armin's head, and he screamed a little more.

"Hey!" she snapped, tossing the trash bag she had slung over her shoulder into the heap at the side of the stoop. "Asshole! Back off."

Armin took advantage of the man's shock by stomping as hard as he could on his foot. There was a satisfying squeal of pain, and as the man loosened his grip on Armin's arm, he yanked himself back. He misjudged his force, however, and his balance wasn't exactly great. He found himself tripping over himself, his sneakers squeaking against the concrete as he toppled onto the ground, his hands flying out as he tried to catch himself. He really could not afford another head injury.

He pushed himself onto his elbows, exhaling sharply through his nose. He listened for a moment, tasting the clashing thoughts and feelings of these two very different people, and he wished very hard for it to go away, but he knew it wouldn't, so he listened a little harder to the sound of Annie's feet as she jumped the steps and landed just a few feet from him, and he listened to the man take a step toward him, breathing heavily and feeling murderous.

Armin was feeling a little murderous too.

He sat up straight, whipping his head to face the man. "You're disgusting," Armin spat, his mouth dry and his stomach turning. "You're such a vile human being."

The man stood, and Armin felt how stunned he was. "I'm a vile human being," he repeated in a soft, awed tone. Armin felt tears sting his eyes.

"You're scum!" Armin cried.

"I'm scum," the man said.

"Go walk in front of a bus!"

"Okay…"

The man stumbled as he started forward through the alley, moving past Armin and Annie until his footsteps became quieter and quieter. Armin sat on his knees, hugging his arms to his chest, tears pooling in his eyes. He understood that the nausea he felt had to be a result of his power. And his power… it had to be a result of something festering inside his brain, because it was too unnatural. Even for an anomaly like him.

He scrubbed at his face, his mouth tasting bitter like bile. "Wait," he croaked. He felt the man stop. "Just go home. And never harass anyone like you harassed me again."

"Huh…?"

Armin felt like puking. "_Go_!" he snarled into his hands, hunching over and feeling disgusted with himself and this man and the entire world.

It wasn't that he was above killing. But he felt that there was nothing to gain from killing this man. It would just be out of spite. And he was not far gone enough to not see the difference between killing out of duty and killing out of pleasure. It would give Armin some sick satisfaction to see this man splattered against the asphalt. That was exactly why Armin let him live.

He didn't want to be a monster.

It was a struggle not to burst into tears.

He was shaking so badly he thought something within him might snap. _I'm a terrible person_, he thought wildly. _Wow_. He almost laughed, but he could barely breathe, and he curled into himself, his teeth clacking against each other and chattering senselessly. His body jolted as he felt something warm and soft and heavy fall across his shoulders. He stared up into Annie's face tearfully.

"Armin," she said quietly, her droopy eyes dark, "what are you doing here?"

He gaped at her, feeling so foolish all of a sudden. He'd almost forgotten his reason for running off in the first place. He blinked profusely, and rubbed at his cheeks as the tears began to fall. "Um," he said, his voice thick, "well… I was looking for you."

She was very quiet. She crouched down until they were eyelevel, and he stared into her eyes, feeling her emotions at full throttle. The taste of her confusion, swirling cream in black coffee, the sensation of her fear bubbling up and cracking the icy surface of her mind, the taste of her awe like the breaking of spring, dandelion fresh and bursting with life. The wall was there, of course, trying to keep him out, but he was beyond that point now. She couldn't keep him out if she tried.

"Okay," she said. "Fine. So why do you look like Christa?"

"What…? Oh!" Armin clamped his hands over his face. "Crap! Crap, right. I forgot."

"You forgot you changed your appearance?" He could hear the condescension in her tone. "Doesn't that require focus?"

"It's been a weird day, okay?"

"So you turned yourself into Christa."

"I just wanted to see how long I could keep it up," Armin said, focusing his mind on pushing Historia's face away from his. He blinked furiously, and he thought that he probably looked like himself now, but he couldn't be sure. Whatever. There were probably worse things than being stuck looking like Historia forever.

"You must be new at this," she said dully. Armin peered at her quizzically, and she sighed. "Wow. Whatever. Next time, pick someone intimidating. Like Reiner."

"I picked Historia because she looks the most like me," Armin mumbled, sniffling. "It was easy to be her. I wouldn't be able to pull off anyone else, I don't think."

"Could you pull off me?"

Armin stared at her incredulously. She looked just the same as he remembered, if not a little scruffy and tired. In fact, he probably looked worse off. "Are you asking me to try to copy your appearance?" he asked. "Because I don't know if I can…"

"You kinda suck," she said. Armin frowned. She offered her hand, and he took it gratefully. She pulled him to his feet. "I'm closer to your height than Christa is."

"You have a _completely _different facial structure." Armin shook his head. "Not a chance."

"Was that a jab at my nose?"

"Not an intentional one."

"All you'd need to do is make something concave become convex," she said.

"Annie, I'm not really comfortable turning into you. Also, I kind of feel like I'm going to pass out."

She stared at him, her gloved fingers clutching his own, and he found himself realizing how strange this was. She wasn't even really questioning his presence. In fact, she'd known it was him right away, even though he'd looked like Historia. Had she felt his presence inside her mind? It was so strange, and he wondered what she had been through. She definitely had no intention of hurting him, which was good, but what did any of it mean?

"Um…" Armin said weakly. "So… hi."

"Hi…"

"I'm sorry I kind of came out of nowhere," he said. "But I really, really need to talk to you."

"That's fine." She glanced around, and pulled him forward. He followed her without comment, letting her pull him into the building she'd come out of. She closed the door behind them, staring vacantly ahead of her. Armin shivered, and curled further into the jacket she'd given him, a ratty blue coat that wasn't really much, but it was nonetheless a gift. "You look like you've got hypothermia."

"I think I walked three miles without a coat," Armin whispered, his teeth chattering.

Her eyes flashed to his, and he thought for a moment she was going to slap him. "For someone so smart," she said icily, "you're a real idiot."

"My power doesn't extend to precognition, you know," he sniffed. "I had no idea I was going to be wandering around at night half-frozen when I woke up this morning."

"You're an idiot." She grasped the hood of the coat she'd given him and tugged it over his face. He squeaked.

"Annie?" a voice called out from somewhere down the hall. Armin blinked, pulling back the hood a little to squint at the person. It was a man, probably in his early twenties, with dark hair and a warm face and a prominent jaw. He tasted like thin mints and the dry, granulated taste of desert sand. Armin found himself shrinking back a little. Where was he, anyway? "Hey, is that a kid?"

"He's a friend of mine, Marlowe," Annie said in her low, bland voice.

Marlowe came closer, looking between Annie and Armin worriedly. Armin could taste his cold concern, his bewilderment prickling against his taste buds. "Another runaway?" he asked gently.

"Yes." Annie lifted her head high. "We came from the same foster home."

"Ah." Marlowe nodded. "Alright, then. Go ahead and get him some of the leftover stew. But, Annie, you should probably stay here for tonight."

"We're okay," Annie said, starting past him. Armin followed hurriedly, throwing a quick glance at Marlowe. _Oh man_, thought the man, _that kid looks like shit_. It was almost funny, but Armin wasn't really in the laughing mood. He just followed Annie down another hall, looking at the walls around him. There were some posters of different groups, perishes and foundations and charities. Armin was beginning to understand where he was.

"A soup kitchen?" He studied Annie's face as she ladled some beef stew into a plastic container for him. She glanced at him, her piercing blue eyes daring him to make some kind of rude comment. When he didn't, she shrugged. He listened to the quiet patter of cold broth against the plastic bottom of the container. "How long have you been on the streets?"

"Not very." She put a lid on the container and shoved it at his chest, stealing a plastic spoon from a bag on the counter. "Come on. We'll talk somewhere else."

_But it's so warm in here_, he wanted to say, looking around the kitchen woefully. But he followed Annie anyway, moving quietly through the building, ducking his head and sniffling. They passed by Marlowe again, and the man asked them once more if they wanted to stay. Annie declined.

"Why aren't we staying here?" Armin whispered, bracing himself against the onslaught of wind. He pulled up the hood of the coat he'd been given, feeling guilty about leaving Annie to the mercy of the cold. Then he realized she honestly did not need a coat.

"It's not really private." She walked slowly through the streets, and Armin noticed that her breath did not mist upon the air. He bundled himself further into his coat.

"Does that mean I'm free to ask you questions?" Armin realized he sounded a little too eager, and he looked away from her, embarrassed. "I mean, I was expecting you to be a little more, um… reluctant… to talk to me."

Annie walked onward, her face a mass of shadows in the streetlamp's yellow glow. She looked so eerie, but then, he imagined he did too. She shoved her hands into her pockets, and stared straight ahead. "I've been thinking about this for awhile," she said, "and I think it's about time you know what's actually going on. This has gone way too far."

His chest fluttered with excitement as he realized that he was going to get answers. Annie was going to give him answers. This was all he could have ever possibly wanted. He attempted to walk faster, moving in time with her steps. She eyed him cautiously, and he smiled at her. This was all he wanted. It was all he could ask for.

"This is going to take awhile…" she sighed. She pushed her long, pale bangs from her eyes, and frowned up at him. "How did you find me?"

"I traced your location by using the link we have," he said sheepishly. "It was actually a lot easier than I thought it'd be. Your taste is so distinct, I mean, once I got past how painful your mental wall is, it's actually very easy to get a hold of your mind."

"That's…" She stared at him, and he could sense her unease, the sour spill of it as it washed over him. He grimaced.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know, I know. My power is invasive. But I really needed to talk to you."

"I had no idea you'd gotten this powerful," she muttered. She glared ahead into the expanse of darkness, and she shook her head. Disbelief was crawling through her, unease melting into awe. "You're very good at surprising me, you know."

"I suppose that doesn't happen often?" he offered, tilting his head at her.

"No. Not really."

He smiled. "Hmm." He bounced back on his heels, and he shrugged. "Well, don't feel too bad. I think I surprise myself more than anyone else."

She glanced at him. They continued to walk, and he wondered where on earth they could be going. It was far too late and far too early for anything to be open. So where, then? He was filled with a small amount of dread as they continued on through the darkness, side by side and somewhat silent. He supposed he should be glad that she was speaking to him at all.

"So why are you not with the institute?" he asked her.

The sounds of their feet scuffing against the sidewalk filled up the emptiness of night. Wind howled at their backs. "Well," she said, glowering ahead of her, "I didn't like getting tortured, for one thing." Armin glanced away from her. Ah. Right. He'd nearly forgotten about that. "By that look, Jean told all of you already."

"I'm sorry that happened to you, Annie," he said.

She rolled her eyes. "It's nothing I shouldn't have expected," she said with a shrug. "I mean, maybe it could've been handled better, but—"

"Don't tell me you're going to try to defend them for that," he said, twisting to face her. She shot him a sharp, bewildered glanced, and said nothing. "Annie, listen, nothing about that was okay. You know that, right?"

"Of course I know that," she spat. "But I've never been under the illusion that I was part of _anything_ that can constitute as "okay", so save your preaching for the choir, Armin."

"Then why were you with them for so long?" he asked her, feeling desperate to understand. "I don't get it, Annie. What did you gain from it?"

"I don't know," she sighed. "A home, maybe? Look, I don't expect you to understand me."

"But I _want_ to!"

"Your loss," she stated coldly.

Armin charged ahead of her, cutting her off and scowling. "Annie, we were sick," he said. "We were all… really, really sick. And they did something to cure us."

"They gave us powers in order to combat our illnesses, yeah." She blinked at him curiously. "You remember that now, huh?"

"We used to be friends," he whispered.

"You just love bringing that up," she sighed. She pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. "Yes, Armin. Yes, we used to be friends."

"We can still be friends, can't we?" He searched her face, trying to find something within her toiling range of emotions that might help him get a grasp on her as a whole. He couldn't piece her together. She was still an utter enigma.

She opened her mouth. Then, frightened, she snapped it shut. She turned her face away from him, and he could feel her unease once more.

"Annie," Armin said desperately. "I'm sick again."

She closed her eyes. She nodded slowly. "I know," she murmured.

"Is that what you wanted to tell me?" He stared at her, taking a tentative step closer to her. "The day you killed Marco, did you want to tell me about what the institute was really trying to do?"

He was startled when she barked a bitter laugh, her eyes snapping open and flittering to his face. "You have _no _idea what the institute was trying to do," she said darkly.

"Well, why don't you tell me, then."

"I will." She shoved past him, marching forward into the darkness. "We're almost here, anyway."

He followed her, feeling the wind crash upon his face, and feeling a little lonelier with every small step, and he ached to see Eren and Mikasa, because their presence always lessened the burden. But he was alone here, with Annie, and it was getting hard to breathe. He was sad. He was tired. This was all too much, and he was sick to death of it.

"A church?" he asked as she opened the door for him. "Why a church?"

"They don't mind homeless kids sleeping in their pews," Annie said. "Just come on."

So he did. He followed her into the church, a little sickened by the intermingling scents of candles and incense. The last time he'd been in a church, it hadn't gone so well. But it was a nice church. A little too dark for him to truly see any of it, but it was roomy without being eerie, and it was warm. He sat down in a pew, and began to eat the stew Annie had procured for him, at her request.

"I haven't been here very long," she whispered. Her voice still echoed against the walls in a rapid succession of syllables. She slumped in her seat, not looking at Armin as he spooned the cold broth into his mouth, a little nauseated by it, but swallowing it all the same. "I was actually in New York for a little while. I… kind of made a mess, and so when Mikasa ended up getting hurt I bailed."

"Wait." Armin lowered his spoon, glancing at Annie with wide eyes. "Are you saying Kenny Ackerman was your fault?"

"He sure as hell wasn't after Mina." Annie rolled her eyes, sinking further into the pew. "Um… but, yeah. Mina ended up taking me in for a little bit. She made sure I didn't get caught, and stuff. She's actually really cool…"

"Aw," Armin said, taking a spoonful of stew and raising it to his lips. "You're not as coldhearted as you want everyone to think."

"Don't think just because we're in a church, I won't beat you senseless," She mumbled, throwing her hood up over her face. "Because I will."

"I'm sure." He continued to eat, feeling bloated and sick, but swallowing anyway. He worked around the cubes of beef, knowing that he'd be more likely to throw up if he ate something solid. Broth was good. It was easy to hold down. Easy to swallow. It was good. He glanced at Annie, lowering his spoon and biting his tongue. He'd actually forgotten for a moment that she'd killed Marco. Well then. "You can come back, you know."

"Does your superhero team really accept traitors?" She pulled her feet up onto the pew, shuffling the hymn books around in their shelf.

"We'll accept you," Armin said. "I promise. Just tell me what the hell is going on, and I swear, no one is going to give you a hard time."

"Not even Jean?"

"Jean feels really, _really_ bad about what happened," Armin said, setting the stew aside.

"Yeah, well, I think I bled all over him," Annie said in a slow, dull tone. "So I guess we're even."

"That isn't funny," he said softly.

"I think you found it a little funny."

"Uh, no."

"Yes."

"Annie," he sighed. "Come on. Are you going to explain things to me or not?"

She paused, her gloved fingers resting against the tops of the books. Her eyes moved slowly to meet his, and her hair fell into them, causing her face to become even more shadowy amongst the dim lighting of the church. "There's a lot," she said. "Be specific."

"Okay," he said. "How about the illnesses. Are they all going to come back?"

"Is that what you're concerned about?" She studied him, her droopy eyes narrowing. "Wow."

"Annie…"

She sighed, and she shrugged. Her tiny shoulders rose and fell, and her head dropped. "I honestly have no idea," she said. "I get tested every few months to make sure I'm still healthy. With the rest of you, it wasn't so easy."

"The robots," Armin said quietly. She glanced up at him, and he could see surprise glowing in the depths of her dull blue eyes.

"We really did underestimate you," she whispered.

"Why go through so much trouble with the robots?" he asked her. "They were massive, and unnecessary. They caused so much damage, too…"

"The big guy upstairs," Annie said, staring vacantly at him, "wanted to make a statement."

"So," he said, "giant fucking robots?"

"Giant fucking robots."

He smiled, and he sunk into the pew. His shoulders brushed hers as they both hung their heads back to stair up at the ceiling arches. The architecture was even more beautiful to behold amongst the shadows and the dust, pools of silvery moonlight shining through and scattering in a thousand bursts of colors through the asymmetrical shards of stained glass windows.

"Super impractical," he said softly.

"I tried to explain," she sighed, "that there were probably better ways to scan, but those dumb robots had been sitting there waiting to be used, and it was kind of basically like, well, might as well use them."

"They got totaled, though. That's such a waste of good technology."

"It was pretty fun trashing them, though," she whispered, glancing at him. "Have to admit."

"They were designed to be like you, Ymir, and Reiner," Armin said, following the dips of the ceiling, the protruding lines that danced like veins along the arches and collided like stars. "Traitors. The institute was warning us."

"Not warning," Annie said, turning her head so her cheek was resting against the wooden back of the pew. "Playing. It was always just a game, Armin. You've been losing all along."

He smiled at her dimly. "And Historia complains that_ I_ speak in riddles," he murmured.

"You keep talking about Historia," she said, blinking slowly. "That's Christa, right?"

"Yeah. She's my sister."

"Knew that." Annie stretched her arms over her head. "Good to know you figured it out, though. Upstairs wasn't too happy about it."

"About me finding out?"

"More like her finding out." Annie rolled her eyes. "You wouldn't believe how possessive the asshole can be. Actually, that's exactly why I got tortured in the first place."

"I'm still trying to understand who you're talking about," Armin whispered, squinting at her. "You're being intentionally ambiguous. It's actually kind of annoying."

"Do you want answers, or what?"

"I want you to be straight with me," he said firmly, turning to face her. She blinked at him, and she sat up, rubbing her cheek as the corner of the pew left an indentation in her skin. "You're my friend, Annie, but you need to talk to me."

"I'm just trying my best with what you already know," she said quietly. "I'm… not used to telling people these things. Sorry."

"No, it's okay, it's just…" Armin sunk further into the pew, and he thought he'd fall right to the floor. "It's been a long day."

"You might as well talk about it." Annie eyed him, and he could tell she was curious. He could taste it, and it was a refreshing change from her wariness and fear. "It might give me an idea of where to go with my explanation."

"Well," he said, "Historia and I went on a mission. Top secret there."

"You're kidding me." She shot him a sharp look. "I thought you trusted me."

"I don't even trust myself most of the time," he said lightly. She stared at him, her eyes narrowing, and he sighed. "Yeah, okay. We blackmailed her father into telling us where our mother is. We met her. It sucked."

"Sorry."

"I mean, I was totally expecting it to suck," he said, "so no real surprise there. But then I passed out in the hall of the hospital, because Bertholdt gave me a concussion—"

"Ooh." She was smirking when he glanced down at her. That was a little eerie to see. "Did he? Tell me more about that."

"He stole Historia's body and hit me so I smacked my head off a tub," he said, frowning at her. "Not exactly the funnest of times."

"You probably provoked him."

He couldn't really deny that. "Anyway," he said as she shook her head, turning her face away, "I got a CT scan, and then an MRI."

"Brain tumor," she said dully.

"Yup."

"Your life sucks."

"So does yours."

"Yeah, but like," she straightened up, and glanced at him, her eyebrows knitting together, "okay, yeah, I've been used as a tool for most of my life. Whatever. At least I knew it. You've been a tool just as long, and you're still figuring it out. Plus, you're a failed subject. And upstairs has a sick interest in you." She shook her head in disbelief. "I don't envy you."

"Again with the upstairs," Armin murmured. "What the hell is upstairs? Is that… Dr. Jaeger? Ilse?"

"God," she murmured back, squinting at him. "You are a true miracle. So intelligent, and so, so stupid."

"Yes, I know, it's amazing."

She kicked herself upright, jumping to her feet. "Alright," she declared, her voice cracking in the empty space of the church, crashing against the walls and shaking in the rafters and threatening to send the whole place down. "You won't believe me unless I give you some kind of proof. Let's go to the cemetery."

"Why the cemetery?" he asked her as he followed her cautiously from the pew. She pulled up her hood, and then pulled up his as well, likely to shield him from the cold. He flushed, feeling as though he'd missed something crucial while assessing Annie. She definitely cared about him. There was that.

"This is a memorial cemetery," Annie said, pulling him forward into the frigid night air. He realized she was holding his hand, and he watched her back curiously. He didn't taste any feelings that might be… well, different, in his opinion, but he was definitely intrigued by this new development. Sure, they weren't exactly holding hands skin-to-skin, so it wasn't as intimate as it could be, but it was interesting. Neither of them really _liked_ physical contact. "From the Salem Witch Trials."

"I had a dream about that," he said blandly. "It sucked."

"I can imagine." She pulled him along until they reached a gate. He curled into the coat she had given him, and she glanced at him with her droopy eyes darkened by the murky night. "You trust me, right?"

In that vivid dream, had she not asked the same thing?

"Annie," he said softly, "I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

She exhaled sharply. She let go of his hand, and she took great care in scaling the fence, easily hitching herself atop it. She offered out her hand to Armin, and he took it, feeling a little apprehensive as he tried to follow her footfalls, his sneakers squeaking against the rusty metal bars. He almost slipped, his feet not quite gaining traction, and he squeaked as Annie grabbed both his arms and hefted him up. For a moment they both sat, straddling the fence, and he smiled at her weakly.

"Did you know," he said, his voice shaky, "poor balance a symptom of brain tumors?"

"I'm gonna push you off," she muttered, unwinding her legs from the fence. "You never used to joke about this shit."

"Yeah, well, I'm not as scared of dying as I was when I was nine, so…" He watched her hit on the ground, crouching a bit upon landing, and then she turned to face him. She offered out her arms, and he smiled wanly. "No way."

"I thought you trusted me."

"It's not even a long fall," he mumbled.

"Just jump, you dweeb."

He pushed off from the fence, and he grimaced as she caught him quite easily under the arms, steadying him as his feet brushed the ground. She frowned at him. "You're really light," she said.

"I don't eat a lot."

"You're fucking stupid."

"Yeah, you've said…"

She released him, shoving her hands into her pockets and kicking up dirt with the toe of her beaten black sneakers. The cemetery was, as to be expected, very old. The graves seemed to be crumbling, and the words engraved on the face of the stones were faded, worn and weathered by time and nature. She ushered him forward through the strain of hissing wind, curling between gravestones easily. He followed her footsteps, scared of where he might step. He didn't know how stable this ground was.

"I should probably start," she said, "by explaining our situation. Me, you, Reiner, Bertholdt, and Historia, we were sent to the institute because we had influence somewhere within its closely knit benefactors. From what I understand, the adults were used as a trial run in order to determine if what they were doing could work on a multitude of different people, taking variables such as gender, race, diseases, and living environment into account. Though, actually, I think all the adults were white, so I guess it just sucked for Bertholdt."

"Eren and Mikasa too," Armin said, watching her as they stood in the wailing darkness, a weather worn gravestone sitting crookedly between them. "Eren's romany."

"From his mother's side," Annie stated, "I'm assuming."

"I think so."

Annie nodded somberly. After giving him a long stare, her eyes lowered toward the grave. She was silent as she gestured for him to continue following her. The wind was whipping rather viciously at her hair, threatening to tug it from its messy knot at the back of her head. She slowed her pace so he could step in time with her, pulling him away from places where the ground became uneven. They were cutting through the cemetery now, taking an uphill path into a wooded area.

"So," Annie said as Armin was forced to duck under a low hanging branch that had missed her head by centimeters, "our situation was the ideal. We got the best treatment by the staff and doctors, and we were the first to get our procedures. Actually, Bertholdt was the first."

"And he became so unstable," Armin said, "that he possessed Ymir and accidentally burned down Eren's house with Eren's mother inside it."

"That wasn't his fault," Annie said sharply. "None of us exactly have a firm grip on our powers, Armin. You of all people should know."

He watched his sneakers snap a twig, the _crack_ echoing deafeningly across the frigid night air. He nodded slowly, nestling his face in the folds of the coat he'd been given. "Yeah," he said, "you're right. I'm sorry. I guess I'm just mad at him. For, well, everything."

"You seem awfully forgiving of me," she said coldly. "And I'm the _murderer_ of the bunch. All Bertholdt did was accidentally skin someone he shouldn't have, and then skin someone he shouldn't have again. He's definitely beating himself up over it."

"You're so chatty," Armin said, smiling down at her. She shot him an icy look, but that only made him smile brighter. "Sorry, but it's true. I don't think we've ever talked this much before."

"We used to," Annie said.

"Well, I don't remember that much," he sighed. He kicked up a rock, listening to it skid against the path and fall into a pit of dead leaves. "Um, continue. Please."

"So…" Annie pulled him off the path, and he grew a little nervous as they hiked through some thin trees, the cemetery still in sight even in the inky darkness, and came to a tiny alcove. There were more graves here. "We were pretty well off. Eren's father was a scientist, so he didn't have the sort of leverage our families had. Mikasa… I'm not even sure of the details with her case, but I know she was unexpected."

"So your family helped fund this entire thing," he said slowly.

"The Brauns, Hoovers, and Leonhardts helped form the institute in the early twentieth century," she said dully. "Not sure how Rod Reiss got mixed in, but he's the president now, so…"

"Wow," he whistled, the sound carrying out rather far against the rush of wind. His nose and ears were numb. "Scandalous."

"You're a fucking nerd."

"Have you not been paying attention?"

She led him through the mismatched patches of graves, pulling him by the hand across the clearing until they reached a shaded area. He could see his breath as the grayish darkness seemed to lift a little, and even in this eerie old place of ghosts and whispering winds, he felt oddly secure. Could it be, perhaps, that the knowledge that there was something malignant inside his head had warped his perception of fear? It was certainly an eerie sort of place, with all these old graves lying about like pale protruding bone fragments in a sea of wisps and shadows.

"You know," he said as she stopped beneath a tree, "it's my birthday."

She looked at him, her brow furrowing as though she was trying to decide if he was serious or not. "Shitty luck," she said. And then she punched him.

"Hey!" he cried, his voice cracking miserably in the rush of air, gusts of wind picking up his words and depositing them who knew where. She punched him again in the same place. His bicep. And then again. "Hey, ow! Annie, quit it!"

"Four," she stated dully, punching him again. She distributed another before he ducked away, his back hitting the tree trunk behind him. "Five."

"Annie!"

She punched him again as he shrunk back into the tree. They weren't very hard punches at all, but it was the fact that she was punching him that frightened him. "Six," she said as she delivered another. "Seven. Eight. Nine."

"I d-don't understand," he stammered, wincing as she punched him twice more.

"Ten. Eleven."

"Annie…"

"Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen." She collected so many punches from his right bicep that he felt it bruising already. He stared at her desperately, but she would not look him in the face, and instead focused on counting upward. "Fifteen." She drove her fist rather gently into his arm, and it felt more like a swat than anything. "Sixteen."

He sunk against the tree trunk, tears welling in his eyes as he slowly put his hand to the place where she'd punched him, and he could feel the sensitivity of the skin beneath the layers of his coat and his shirt. He flinched back as her knuckles came very suddenly into his line of vision, her fist sailing over his head. For a moment, he thought she had decided not to do it. And then, very gently, she thumped him on the head.

"And one for luck," she said in her usual cool, careless tone. He slid down the face of the tree until he was sitting on his knees. "Happy birthday. Loser."

"What was that all about?" he mumbled, massaging his bicep uncertainly. The branches of the tree creaked overhead, wind lashing out against the skeletal limbs that stretched out toward the gray sky. Armin stared at her as she crouched down beside him, leaves crunching sadly beneath her weight.

"Birthday punches," she said simply, as though it were the most obvious thing. He stared into her eyes, lightened somewhat as the shadows around them shifted, blackness going starkly gray and grayness burning white. Her eyes were like two glaciers, glowing against the poorly lit dawn. "Come on. You don't do birthday punches?"

He was still rubbing his arm, his body slumping in the bed of leaves. "Never had that pleasure," he said, his lips turning into a tight grimace. "Unfortunately."

"That's weird," she said.

"Not really?" He pulled his knees up, hugging them tightly as he shuddered against the cold. Whispers blew through the graves, words he could not catch, words that he knew well. He could see a figure moving through the uneven rows, black silhouette gracefully swooping in and between like the wind itself had taken shape. He turned his eyes to Annie, and focused solely on her. "We grew up in really different places, though."

"Yeah," she said, slumping a little. She plucked up a leaf from the ground and began to twirl it idly. "I guess…"

"Did your parents die?" he asked, tilting his head at her. She eyed him warily, bringing the leaf up so it shielded half her face like a fan. "Is that why the institute had you for so long?"

"My parents signed a contract," she said, the blue of her eyes growing brighter with ever second spent in the frigid early dawn. Sunlight had yet to truly spill across the graveyard, but Armin could feel it brewing. It was stewing somewhere upon the horizon, threatening to spill over onto the earth. "I'm not theirs anymore."

"That makes no sense at all," he murmured, staring through the dull brown leaf at the way her brow knitted and her eyes darted away. "They didn't even try to get you back?"

"I don't know, Armin," she sighed, tossing the leaf away and slamming her back against the tree trunk. The branches shook above them, jittery from the force of her body. "I don't know much about them. The might not still be alive. None of us really knew."

"You just blindly followed the institute," Armin stated incredulously. She shot him a sharp look, and he shook his head. "No, I really cannot wrap my head around this. You had to know they were up to no good."

"You don't know what you're talking about," she snapped.

"Then _tell_ me!" He turned his body fully to face her, and he watched her shadowy face as the dawn's light shifted through the twisted branches of the trees above them. She had a look upon her face that was something like terror and something like bemusement, and she was looking at him so desperately that his heart broke for her. She understood what it was like to be scared of people, and to be scared of hurting people, in a combined terror of power and pain. "Annie… why did you bring me here?"

She shook her head mutely, glancing away. He could feel her fear like an avalanche, and it was crushing him. It hurt to breathe. "Annie," he whispered, tears in his eyes. "Annie, come on, please."

"I can feel you trying to get in my head," she said quietly.

"I can't help it," he breathed, "you're practically spilling your guts to me with your feelings. I just can't make sense of it. Why are you so scared? Is it me? Are you really scared of me, Annie?"

"No," she croaked, her eyes flashing wide. But the truth washed over his tongue like a bitter burst of sweat, and she hid her face in her hands. "I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing. This was a mistake."

"No it wasn't," he said, scooting closer to her. She stiffened, shaking her head profusely as he rested a hand on her shoulder. "Hey. Come on. I'm not that scary. I'm like, five-foot-four and ninety pounds and super sickly. What do you have to be afraid of?"

"Your mind," she said, her voice muffled by her hands. "You're too powerful."

"If it makes you feel any better," he said, tilting his head so he was peeking under her blindfold of hands, "I'm pretty sure you won't have to worry about it soon."

She shoved him very hard, and his back smacked against the trunk of the tree. He coughed weakly, wondering if he was making these jokes in order to make himself feel better about his situation. He sat, his eyes wide and searching her face, which was pulled back in a terrible snarl.

"I don't get it," he said loftily. "You don't hate me, you don't like me, you can hardly stand my presence, but you're scared that I'm going to die. Explain to me, Annie. I'm not nearly as all-powerful as you seem to think I am."

She took a deep breath, her hands drawing down her face slowly. The gloves were a little dirty, he noticed now, and little brown trails smeared her cheeks like dusty tears. "You won't believe me," she whispered.

"Oh, come on," he said. "Try me."

She shook her head, tilting it back to peek through the trees at the lightening sky. Dawn had broken, and silvery light was trailing through the parted clouds. "We were out all night," she whispered. Her eyes moved slowly, following the branches downward. "I carved my name into this tree once."

"Really?" Armin tilted his head upward, craning his neck to see some kind of marring on the face of the bark, but it was still far too dark. He glanced back down at her, and he was stunned by their close proximity. It had been this way for the entire time. He hadn't been uncomfortable at all. _This is Annie_, he thought. _She's a murderer, and a traitor, and I think I trust her more than I trust half the people I know_.

Armin was struck by a revelation.

He tore off his gloves, setting them aside and reaching cautiously for Annie's face. She noticed, of course, and flinched from him, whacking his hands away. "What the hell, Armin?" she snapped at him, her voice scathing. He stared at her, his hands drooping against the frigid air. And he smiled.

"I think I figured it out," he gasped, feeling a little giddy. "It won't hurt you, I promise."

"Bullshit."

"Annie," he pleaded, his smile remaining as his fingers trembling. "You trust me, don't you?"

She stared at him, her uncertainty clear. He could feel it bubbling up in his throat, and he wanted to laugh, because it had turned into sweet tasting curiosity, and that was all he needed. He rested his fingertips against her cheeks, and he thought perhaps her skin should've felt colder, but his fingers were already numb. She jolted a little at his touch, on impulse he suspected, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Then, after a few moments, they snapped open in bewilderment.

"Oh," she said flatly. His thumb drew carefully across her skin, swiping the dirt away, and he relaxed as she gaped at him. Ice was cracking against his teeth, and he breathed in the wavering tastes of overturned mulch and dandelions.

"It's trust," he said contentedly, wiping off the dirt on his jeans. "That's… that's what makes it hurt to touch people. I don't trust them. And that's why it never hurts to touch Eren and Mikasa, because I've _always_ trusted them." He blinked rapidly as he dropped his hands into his lap. "Marco touched me once and it didn't hurt because I didn't realize he was touching me. He told me he thought I was just psyching myself out. Maybe he was right."

She made a strange sound, like something had died in the back of her throat, and he realized she was blushing. Her pale cheeks were glowing pink in the shuddering morning light, and he thought perhaps she might cry. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, and she shook her head. And then she kept shaking it, her lips pressing together thinly, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

"You don't…" she murmured. "You're… you're such a fool…"

"Maybe," he said. His stomach was fluttering from excitement at this newfound knowledge. If he had an explanation for the pain, that meant he could control it. That meant he could touch people. Be somewhat normal, at least with the people he surrounded himself with. Of course, he would never be able to be _normal_, because there was something ingrained in him now that made him uncomfortable with the sensation of touch. But maybe just a little he could work it out, and he could live without the fear of panic attacks at every little brush of a hand.

"I always thought that maybe," she said bitterly, her eyes dropping, "you'd figure it out. Your power would make you… the only one who really _can_. I thought you might be able to see through the lies."

"I'm not omniscient," he told her gently.

"You might as well be," she spat, pulling off her gloves. He watched her curiously, her blackened fingers glittering in the slivers of dawn light trickling through the grayish air. She touched the tree trunk, her hardened skin scratching roughly against the bark. It was a shrill sound. Armin watched as swirls of frost erupted from her fingers, crawling steadily across the grooves of bark. "God, why do you think I had the wall up in the first place?"

"To keep me out…?" Armin tilted his head, watching the pattern of frost as it danced across the surface of the tree trunk. "To keep something out. I'm not entirely sure."

"Everyone thinks," she said, her fingers drawing little icicles out of the tree, crystallizing them with a flick of her wrist, "that I'm either a murderous bitch or a weak little pawn."

"I don't think you're either," Armin offered. "I think you were just looking out for yourself. I mean… yeah, you killed Marco… but I don't think that was your fault."

She barked a laugh so bitter he felt it rumbling in his chest, and he felt her disbelief and fury as she shook her head, smashing her icicles with her fist. "You really don't get it," she spat. She sounded close to tears. "God, why am I wasting my time on you?"

"Because you're lonely," he said simply. She glared at him, and he shrugged modestly. "Sorry. Can't help what you're feeling."

She folded her arms across her chest and scowled. Shadows were dancing all across her face, and Armin was still giddy from the revelation that his trust issues were what were amplifying his senses. Once again he was struck by an idea. Yes, it could end rather badly, but on the flipside he could very easily solve this communication problem. All he needed was Annie's unconditional trust.

"Hey," he said, shifting so he was sitting on his knees. She studied him with a bored expression, no longer flushing and no longer angry. Well, at least not outwardly. He could still taste her rage, crushed ice slicing upon his tongue. "Okay, so I want to try something else, but I need your permission for this one. And your cooperation."

"Because _that_ doesn't sound shady at all," she stated flatly. Her eyes narrowed at his face, but once again she was curious, and that was all he needed. "Oh god. What do you want to do?"

He chewed the inside of his cheek. He could feel himself flushing, but he needed to get over it. This was important. And he wasn't particularly concerned with his personal feelings on the matter. If he could overcome his discomfort now, it'd be easier to trust other people, and thus he'd be able to have more positive human interaction. Which, frankly, he knew would do wonders for his mental state.

"You can say no," he said quickly, staring into her eyes so she understood how serious he was. "But it's recently come to my attention that I can use intimacy to relay a lot of information in a short amount of time. I did it with Mikasa, and then she did it with Eren using our link. If you want, we can try that. So you don't have to actually tell me anything, just mentally plug it into my brain."

"That sounds like a terrible idea," Annie said dully.

"You said you trusted me," Armin reminded. "And I trust you, don't I? I know you want me to know things, but I can tell you don't know how to tell me. So show me. Use my power."

"I don't even know how," she said, her eyes widening minutely in disbelief. "I'm not Mikasa or Eren, I don't know you or your power enough to be able to manipulate it!"

"Just think," he urged her. "Just think of the things you want to show me. And I'll see them. It's simple."

"It doesn't sound simple," she sighed, tossing her bangs out of her eyes.

"Hey, I'm grasping at straws here." He gave her a long, beseeching look, hoping that she pitied him enough for this. "And I can't just take the information from you. Listen, I think it'll work."

She rubbed her face furiously, and her agitation hit him hard like a brick to the jaw. He winced, biting his tongue keep himself from moaning in dull pain. All the medication he'd been given at the hospital had worn off by now, and he had a terrible headache that was turning his brains inside out. He felt a little nauseous too, but he didn't want her to know that.

"Okay." She took a deep breath, and he found himself staring at her in shock. Well. That had taken less persuasion than he had thought it would. "Okay, whatever. We'll… try it. What exactly does this intimacy crap entail?"

"Um," Armin said, feeling a little lightheaded. He couldn't tell if it was a result of his anxiety, or if it was another result of the thing festering inside his brain. "Well, when I did it with Mikasa I kissed her on the cheek. But I think the mouth would be more effective."

"If this is some elaborate plot to ask me out," Annie said in a crisp, bland tone. "The answer is no."

"Well it's a very good thing that is not my intention," he said, echoing her tone as best he could. He wasn't particularly hurt by her words considering, well, he really had no intention of initiating any kind of relationship beyond friendship, since that seemed a bit excessive. And also silly. He didn't have the time to spare for that sort of thing.

"Awesome," she said, straightening up. "So why do you think the mouth would be more effective?"

"Because the more intimate an act is, the more information I gain, I think," he explained very slowly. As he spoke, he was realizing it for himself. This seemed to be correct. The more intimate an action, the more information. Yes, of course. "That's why sex is pretty much like, ow, ew, let's not—"

He blinked very rapidly as her mouth caught against his, her lips hard and cold and numbing. At first it was all small sensations, the taste of her ice and spring mind mingling inside his mouth. He felt breathless for a moment, his stomach churning in initial discomfort. He had known this wouldn't be the best experience, but maybe it was just his nerves. Her close proximity hadn't bothered him for the majority of the night. _I'm over thinking it_, he realized. He was breathing in the breath she exhaled, and it was a strange feeling. Her tastes and her feelings were all wound up inside his mouth, and he felt like laughing.

He kept it subdued to a smile. The touch of her mind was icy and sharp, like icicles piercing his cerebrum, and he closed his eyes and squeezed them shut. Her wall of ice was down, and they were both feeling each other's emotions toil inside their mouths. It must be so sickening for her, for someone utterly unused to such unsavory things.

_Hi_, he thought to her through their mindlink. It was such a frozen thing, a chain of ice encrusted metal wrapped tightly around his throat. _Okay, so all you need to do is think, and I'll see it_.

_Okay_, she thought to him. His heart was pounding rather hard, and so was his brain against the inside of his skull, and he was breathing very heavily, and he was scared of what might happen if he was not careful. He'd just spent then entire night out in the cold. He'd barely eaten in twenty four hours. He was pushing his powers to their very limits. And his entire body was shaking.

_Not now_, he thought to himself, begged to himself, keeping this from Annie as her icy touch filled the catacombs of his mind with a blanket of soft, numbing snow. And suddenly he was seeing his own face on the back of his eyelids, tiny and gaunt and smiling vacantly and hollow eyed. This was a different Armin. A little boy who'd been scared of dying. He didn't think he was that little boy anymore.

He saw himself playing with Eren and Mikasa, his head shaven and the scar from the incision line still stark against his scalp. Through Annie's eyes, he saw Mikasa's hand close around his arm. He felt the horror, felt it freeze across his tongue and sting his flesh. He felt as though his entire body had been plastered down, and he was drinking in rainwater and gnawing on elongated icicles. His teeth hurt.

_Crunch_.

His teeth cracked together, and ice glazed his eyes as he listened to his tiny arm snap beneath the force of Mikasa's grasp. He felt Annie's confusion and terror, and it washed all around him, drifts and drifts of snowflakes clinging to his mouth and his eyelashes and his hair, and he heard her whispering inside his head, _Look_.

A doctor had come in. Armin didn't remember any of this.

Certainly not that doctor.

It was a young doctor, too. Nice face. The vision was hazy. Armin had to squint.

_Annie_, he thought to her, _I don't get it_.

He was shaking so very badly.

_Oh please_, he thought to himself desperately, _please, not now. Hold on a little longer_.

_Look_, Annie whispered into his head. He could almost feel her chilly hands press to his face, turning his attention to the doctor. Wisps of smoke veiled his vision, swirling about as he squinted at the doctor, the young doctor whose words were foreign, foreign and laced with some lie or another, and he could taste it. This entire scene tasted like a fabrication.

"Armin," Ilse said sweetly, a girl with pretty eyes and a pretty face and a world of mysteries weighing upon every turn of her thick lips, "come here. Let's get you to Dr. Jaeger."

_Okay_, Armin thought to Annie. _I don't remember any of this_.

_Armin_, Annie thought to him, her voice sounding quiet and urgent in his head. _Look. You must not be looking. What do you see?_

_Ilse_, he thought back to her, tasting hoarfrost and blood and something painfully like cyanide. How did he even know what that tasted like? He was shaking so badly, and he was so upset because this had been nice, a nice kiss, a strange kiss, an interesting first in a succession that did not exist. He was breathless as her mind dumped snowdrift after snowdrift onto his, cooling his brain to the point where everything was frozen over and he was shivering so badly his bones were about to snap.

_Wait_, she thought confusedly. He tasted that confusion like a match. He listened to it strike upon wall of his skull, felt it drag in slow motion, scratching a rhythm into his mind and into his heart. His entire world lit up at once. _What?_

His scream was muffled against her mouth.

And he felt her panic like a bombshell erupting in his throat, ice shards burrowing in his esophagus and piercing his larynx. He couldn't speak. He couldn't breathe. The image of Ilse's face was shaking just like him, like a poor boy having a seizure, and like a poor boy, a poor boy, a poor frozen boy, and Armin didn't understand because there was something in his brain, something in his brain, something, something, it was a tumor, it was a growth, it had been there for so long that he'd hardly even noticed, and he screamed as Annie's panic fell across him like a weight, ice sliding up his chest. Had she been touching his chest? He hadn't even noticed.

He hadn't noticed a damn thing.

And it was so, so, so hard to understand!

Because Ilse was smiling in his memory, sweet and nice, such a sweet girl, a nurse at the institute, that was it, right? That was it. That was what his mind was telling him.

But Annie's mind was showing him something else.

He was shaking so badly, and he was sobbing, and her lips were no longer on his, and he could hear her voice pleading with him. His entire body was wrecked, and he knew. He knew that this could not go on. His body wasn't trembling, it was convulsing, and he wasn't able to move because something was pinning him to the tree at his back, something cold, something so cold and so numbing that it hurt him. It hurt. He felt betrayed.

She'd betrayed him!

_No_, Armin hissed at himself. _No! Get yourself together! It's not her!_

All the lies, all the painful, painful lies, they'd been Annie from the start!

_Stop it_, Armin thought. _Remember, it wasn't Annie. It wasn't her. Why do I keep thinking it was her? What the hell… is happening…?_

He was shaking too badly, and his seizure was now soundless, but he could still see, and he could still think, and he was so scared. He saw Annie, kneeling just before him, her face more expressive than he'd ever seen it in his entire life, and he realized she was crying. She was mouthing words to him, screaming something he could not hear. He felt her dandelion taste at his mind, rapping on a wall of ice that encased him.

So maybe it wasn't Annie. Maybe it was someone else. Maybe it was Ymir. Smoke. Lies. It made sense.

_No it doesn't,_ he thought firmly. Tears crystallized on his cheeks, and he realized he was freezing.

Actually freezing.

His mouth opened in shock, and he lurched forward, but his shaky limbs were frozen to the tree trunk he'd been lounging against since before dawn. He was breathless. This wasn't supposed to happen. It was supposed to work. Annie's power had been a gamble, but this? No, she could control herself far better than this! It made no sense!

Had Armin been wrong?

The sense of failure was so immense that Armin felt content to just hang in his icy cocoon as it trembled and rose around him, a fortress for a witch, a prison for a boy with nothing left to lose.

He watched Annie as the ice crawled up his neck, stinging him and pinning him and making his breath hitch. He didn't understand. How could he have been so wrong?

And in the last trickles of the dawn, in the shivering morning light, Armin saw a smiling boy standing before him. Right next to Annie, his hallucination watched sadly as he was consumed by the creeping, almost sentient ice crystals that had been cast upon him. Ah. He'd been cursed. Like in a fairy tale. He saw it written across the sky in his own twisted hand. If only he could read it.

The hallucination had been there the entire time. Armin had seen it weaving between the graves, taking on different shapes. It had been Mikasa and Eren, both of them dancing, it had been Erwin standing stoically, it had been Sasha and Connie laughing, it had been Annie pressing her finger to her lips even as the real Annie had chatted away to her heart's content, it had been Reiner and Bertholdt apologizing over and over, it had been Ymir juggling flames and then screaming when they consumed her, it had been Jean standing before a grave while smoking a cigarette, it had been Hange whistling a familiar old tune of a familiar old nursery rhyme, it had been Levi with a bare back turned to Armin, one wing of his incredible tattoo shattered into a thousand pieces upon the white contours of his back, and it had been Historia and Armin with their hands locked together as they were forced up on a two buckets beneath the black, skeletal fingers of a leafless tree, and two impeccably made nooses were fastened around their necks. Armin had watched, still chattering away with Annie, as some unseen force kicked the buckets away.

He choked now, choked on all the dreams he'd once had and never could achieve, and he choked on all the words he wish he'd said or thought or cast out into the world for someone, anyone to hear and feel and taste and understand, and he choked because the ice was crushing his larynx for certain now, and he was wondering if this was all just a big hallucination, if he'd ever even met Annie here in the first place, if the thing in the hospital had tricked him into thinking he'd gotten a clue when in reality he was more lost than ever.

He was dying.

There was no way around it. He was cold, and alone, and dying in the silvery light of dawn on the anniversary of his birth. Because death was ironic like that.

_Shakespeare died on his birthday_, he told himself brightly. _It's totally cool_.

Another part of himself was crippled by the revelation. _I'll never see Eren and Mikasa again_, he thought, choking. He felt a noose around his neck. It was tightening with every little breath he took. It was cold. Freezing. He was freezing. This was his fate, to choke and die here. Was it better to freeze to death all alone in an unknown place, than to die in a hospital bed, with everyone he loved watching him with all their feelings welling up inside of him as he withered away?

_I'll never see them again_, he thought, terrified. _I'll never see Erwin. I'll never see Historia. My family. Please. Please, god, not now. Not now. I want to see my family one last time, please. I want to say goodbye. I want them to know, please, please, please, I need them to know. I love them, I love them so much, please, please, __**please!**_

The hallucination was laughing.

How wonderful.

Armin's suffering was a joke.

A wonderful, wonderful joke.

He was such a fool.

He couldn't breathe. The ice was biting into his mouth, and into his cheeks, and slithering upward. It was tickling his earlobe.

Annie was still screaming, and he heard her sobbing as well, and felt her clawing at his feet, desperately trying to save him.

Was she not a hallucination too?

What was real, and what was fabricated?

How had he been so wrong?

"Stop it!" Annie cried, snow collecting in her hair as she attempted to scratch Armin out of his icy shell. "Help me undo it! I can't, I can't melt it, you have to do something!"

Beside her, Marco smiled sadly.

"Annie," he said in that sweet, familiar voice, like cookie dough and cyanide collapsing on his tongue. "Come on, now, chin up. Let me take care of it. You trust me, don't you? I mean…" Marco's warm eyes met Armin's as the ice slipped over his nose, and tickled his ears. "After all, if anyone can help him, it's me."

* * *

_You might just want to reread the entire story. It'll help._


	28. let the light shine out from all

**elucet omnibus lux**

**Salem, Oregon**

_a.d. iii Non. Nov., 2766 A.U.C._

That morning he'd awoken with a start. It had been a strange sort of jolt, his eyes snapping open and his heart thundering in his chest. He was knotted up in his blankets, silvery dawn light drawing in through his window. He squinted through it, shivering against the nippy morning chill. Someone had forgotten to turn the heat on. He sniffled, rubbing his eyes blearily as he checked the time.

_Daylight's savings time_, he recalled, grimacing. The clocks ran backward today. He sat up in bed, pulling his diabetes kit into his lap and quickly checked his blood sugar. All in all, he seemed fine. He licked up the residual bead of blood, a shudder running through him as he tossed his blankets back. Damn, it was cold!

Eren then recalled something incredibly important.

He leapt off his bed, his bare feet sliding against his wooden floor, and he crept out of his room, tip toeing carefully through the hall. It was very dark, for the morning light could not reach the narrow hallway, and his toes felt numb against the frigid wood. He listened to his skin peel off the surface, making soft sucking sounds with every step.

Armin's door was ajar.

Eren paused, curious, and he carefully pushed it open. He was greeted with a gust of icy November air, and he flinched at the sensation, a thousand knives blowing him backwards. He marched into the room, his teeth chattering, and he looked around hurriedly, trying to comprehend the frigid temperature. He saw that Armin's window was wide open, the screen popped out and resting underneath it. A thin layer of frost clung to the surface of the windowsill as Eren slammed the window shut.

Armin bolted upright in bed, his hair utterly askew all around his head, pale strands twisted and tangled in the silvery glow of dawn. Eren glanced at him confusedly. _Why the fuck was your window open, man?_ he thought to his tiny friend as the boy shuddered in the cold, curling up against his blanket.

Armin did not answer.

"Hey," Eren said, "dude. Happy birthday."

Armin twisted to face him, his body going taut as his mouth dropped open.

And Eren realized his mistake.

"Historia?" he blurted, taking an alarmed step back.

"Eren?" she asked weakly, her large blue eyes drooping in disappointment.

"What're doin'?" Eren asked curiously, plopping down at the foot of the bed. He noticed how she sorta skittered back, pulling her legs up to her chest and hugging them tightly. Her body was coiled up, and the tension there was clear. Did she not trust him, or something? "Where's Armin?"

She stared at him with her large, dull blue eyes. And then she buried her mouth in her knees, shaking her head. Eren didn't understand. What did that mean?

"Historia…?" Eren stared at her expectantly. She had the same vacant look about her that she always had. It seemed to him that she was still healing. "Hey. C'mon, don't pout like that."

She blinked at him confusedly, raising her head. "What…?" she asked, her voice thick.

"You're pouting," he said. "And feelin' sorry for yourself, I'll bet. Quit it. You ain't dyin', are you?"

She winced at his words, and she took a deep, shaky breath. She shook her head furiously, and her wild blonde hair blew about her face. He nodded firmly.

"Good," he said. "So, what's goin' on? Did Armin open the window last night, whenever y'all got home? Or…?"

"What time is it?" she mumbled, scrubbing at her eyes furiously. She tossed her head back and groaned. "I feel like I barely even slept."

"It's like, six or somethin'." Historia gave him a long, disbelieving look. "What?"

"It's six in the morning," she said, "and you woke me up?"

"I thought you were Armin!" Eren threw his hands up in defense. "Ain't my fault you two are like, identical fuckin' twins."

"I'm older by ten months," she mumbled, ducking her head as he reached over to try and pat her hair down.

"I don't care if you're six years older, with your hair all stuck up like that you look exactly alike." He smoothed the strands out so they weren't arranged all across her head, and she stared at him blankly. "Eh. There. Now you kinda look like you. Sorta."

He frowned as he tugged his fingers from her hair, grimacing when he accidentally ripped some hair out. "Uh, sorry," he said, offering out the stray strands of golden hair that he'd torn from her head. She'd winced a little but otherwise seemed unfazed. She plucked up one long, golden filament and watched it glimmer faintly in the silvery dawn light.

"You're a lot like Ymir," she said softly.

Eren went rigid. Rage welled up inside him, bubbling up in his throat as he snarled at her, "What? 'Cause I _hurt_ you? That's a crock of shit, and you know it."

"No," Historia said, running her fingers through her hair. He saw them get snatched up by her tangles, and she tore through them with great ease. "I just think you sound a lot like her. She's a lot nicer than you think she is."

"She's kinda responsible for my mom's death," Eren said dully.

"I know," she said in the same dull tone. "I'm sorry. But I think you're all wrong about her anyway. She didn't mean it."

"Look," Eren said, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, "I already had this fuckin' conversation with her, okay? I ain't gonna kill her. Don't mean I gotta like her. Also, we ain't nothin' alike, hon."

Historia actually giggled at that, surprising him. It had been a long time since he'd heard her laugh. "But you talk exactly the same," she said, smiling wanly. He scowled at her as she rested her cheek against her knees. "It's nice…"

"You're saying I talk like a fuckin' bootlegger, or somethin'… else from the twenties?" He snorted. "Yeah, okay."

"I'm just saying you sound alike," she said.

"I always thought I sounded like a hick," Eren said thoughtfully, leaning back to stare at the ceiling. "Guess I sound like a hick and Leonardo DiCaprio. Good to know."

Historia smiled at that. It was nice, actually. Making her smile. Eren didn't know much about her, but she was Armin's sister, so she was automatically top priority and needed to be protected at all costs. Or, like, maybe she could protect herself, who really cared, the point was that Eren had made her smile and that was a pretty damn good accomplishment. Good job, Eren.

"Right, so like, Armin?" Eren bounced eagerly against the mattress, listening to the springs creak noisily in the ringing silence of dawn. "Don't tell me he's sick."

Historia blanched. She opened her mouth, her tiny lips parting in a long gape as she stared at him. He could see her breath in the chilly morning air, and it misted slowly around her mouth. She looked utterly lost for a moment, her eyes growing dazed as she stared ahead, suddenly unfocused.

"Sick…?" she uttered faintly.

His brow furrowed, and he refrained from saying something very mean that he might regret. He didn't want to hurt her feelings, or anything. In fact, he wanted her to actually feel comfortable around him, which he knew she wouldn't if he mouthed off every stupid thing that came to his mind. _Still_, he thought, tilting his head at her in disbelief, _she's kinda weird_.

"Uh, yeah," he said. "Like, is he puking his guts out in the bathroom again? Did y'all fall asleep together? That's actually kinda sweet, jeez."

"Oh." Historia slumped, her fingers skimming her hair shakily as she blinked away the glaze in her eyes. She shook her head profusely, taking a deep breath. "No, no, he… he's…" She flinched when he leaned forward anxiously. "He's… gone, Eren…"

Eren sat cross-legged on Armin's bed, breathing in icy air and exhaling steam, and he stared at this tiny girl with a blank, placid gaze.

"What?" he stated flatly.

His thoughts were suddenly flying at a million miles per second, and he mentally stretched himself until he felt himself snap, reaching blindly into the ether until he realized there was nothing to reach for. No ribbon, no link, no voice inside his head to reassure him that there was nothing wrong.

He leapt to his feet, his heels cracking against the hard wood.

"What the fuck do you mean," he said, his voice rising in volume, "he's _gone_?"

"He ran off," she said, her head bowing. "I was waiting to see if he might… come back, or something. I don't know." He whirled around and marched to the door. "Where are you going? Eren…? Hey!" She leapt to her feet after him, trailing behind him as he stomped his feet like a child throwing a tantrum, and he threw open Mikasa's door.

She bolted upright, staring at him with her steady gaze alert even through her sleep-filled eyes.

"Get up," he said sharply, turning from her and exiting the room with a turn of his heel. "Armin ran away."

He could hear the rustle of her blankets being kicked away, and the soft clap of her feet against the wooden floor. She was at his side suddenly, her arm still in a sling as she hunched defensively, her eyes darting between him and Historia. He could sense her fear as she lurked very close to him, her breathing sharp as she inhaled through her nose. He didn't need the mindlink to know what she was feeling. He was feeling it too.

"Eren," Historia said desperately, "what are you doing?"

He moved through the hallway in nothing but a few quick strides. He could hear his blood pounding into his brain. He was absolutely terrified. And absolutely furious. He could hear not-quite-so distant murmuring as he came upon the kitchen. It immediately stopped as he entered the room.

Hange tipped their head back to peer at him over their thick glasses. They smiled genially.

"Eren," they said. "Hey, sleepy head, what are you doing up so—?"

"Where is Armin?" he asked furiously.

Hange's smile did not falter. Instead they turned their attention to Erwin, an eyebrow quirked expectantly. "Yeah, Erwin," they said, "where's Armin?"

"Now that isn't fair," Erwin sighed. "You know I can't see him."

"Yeah, that's bullshit," Levi said dully from a stool. He'd been discharged the previous night, and upon returning home they all had kind of crashed without even thinking. They'd just figured Erwin would return with Armin and Historia in tow. Eren had never imagined this could happen. Why? Why would Armin run off?

"You're his father," Eren snapped at Erwin. "You're his fucking _father_! You should know this stuff! What happened? Was he upset? Angry? Was he scared? You can't leave him alone when he's scared, he'll just end up hurting himself, and— and probably someone else, who knows with his powers! And he's not even in any kind of physical condition to be running around by himself! In the cold, too! What the fuck! How did this _happen_? Historia?" He rounded on the tiny blonde girl. She stared at him vacantly.

"I don't know," she said softly. Eren couldn't help but believe her. She seemed kind of devastated. He whirled back around to face Erwin.

"_Well_?" he asked, his voice biting and sharp and tearing from his throat in an unrestrained snarl.

"Eren," the man said calmly, "if I knew where Armin was, I'd be with him right now."

"You should be out looking!" Eren cried. "He's too smart for you to leave alone, he could be on his way to like, Mexico or, or Canada, or something by now! Why are you all sitting around? We need to find him!"

"Eren, please calm down," Hange said gently. Eren shot them a look, his jaw tightening in frustration. They didn't get it. They didn't understand. Armin was too smart and too independent. If he wanted to, he could make certain that none of them ever saw him again. And that was terrifying.

"Do you think I'm not calm?" Eren spat, his muscles coiling in tension. "Because I could be pretty damn livid. I think I'm calm right now, don't you, Mikasa?"

"Relatively," she answered in a low, dark tone. She was furious too, he could tell. She was just keeping her fury to herself.

"Armin said he had a lead, and that he was following it," Erwin said. He was sitting at the table, his hands folded over his mouth as he hunched forward pensively. "I have no idea what that could mean. He was very careful not to alert us as to what he was planning to do."

"Well, what the hell are we supposed to do, then?" Eren asked, his voice trembling in his rage. "Just wait for him to come back?"

"There isn't much else we can do," Hange admitted. Eren stared at them incredulously, and they could only smile at him. "Don't worry, okay? Just have a little faith in him. And just imagine how much trouble he'll be in when he gets back!"

"I don't want Armin in trouble," he said heatedly, "I just want him to be _home_."

"Erwin," Historia said quietly, "do you think… that maybe we should—"

"No, Historia," Erwin said firmly.

She stared at him with her dull eyes widening ever so slightly. She looked desperate and sad. And also, perhaps, a little angry. She turned toward Mikasa and rested her hand on her sling. For a few moments nothing happened, but then, suddenly, the room was filled with a strange mist of golden light that trailed in little waves from Mikasa's broken arm, swirling around Historia's pretty face and electrifying her dim blue eyes. Suddenly the air was brimming with gold, and Eren tasted the spark, tasted the life in it as it exploded all around them, a burst of light that dispersed into nothing.

"There," Historia said in her usual soft little voice. "I'm sorry it took so long."

Mikasa unwound the sling hastily, staring at her arm in awe for a moment before cracking her cast with her bare fingers, watching the remnants of it crash to the tile floor. She flexed her arm, dust clinging to her skin as her muscles moved. She dusted herself off, nodding her thanks to Historia as she wandered to Levi's side.

It was just the same when she healed him, only this time she didn't actually touch him. She just leveled her hands with his face, and sorta just twitched her fingers until suddenly there was golden light, and her eyes were reflected it like two swirling beacons, and for some reason Eren felt as though he wasn't really looking at Historia, but something else, like maybe an alien or a ghost or something eerie and powerful that could not be understood by this world.

"Well," Levi said, patting his side, "shit."

Historia was watching him with a long, intense gaze, and Eren realized her eyes were leaking.

Like, she wasn't crying.

Her eyes were leaking gold.

He watched it roll down her cheeks in slow rivulets.

"Historia," Erwin said in a sharp, clear voice. She looked at him, and Eren saw a dazed little smile on her lips as the liquid gold touched them. And then her smile fell, and she scrubbed at her eyes furiously, whirling away from them all as she hunched over and took deep, deep breaths.

"Hey," Eren said hesitantly, "you okay?"

"Historia has to keep a steadier grip on her power," Erwin said. "Sometimes she loses herself in it. She's fine, though."

Eren glanced at the tiny girl, watching her shoulders shake and listening to her heavy breaths, and he found that he didn't believe Erwin one bit.

Mikasa moved nearer to Historia, hovering beside her protectively as she shot a glance at Erwin. Perhaps neither of them believed him, but even still. There was something odd going on here. Something Erwin wasn't saying. Something Historia knew, but wasn't saying because Erwin forbid it. Eren and Mikasa shared a knowing look.

"Historia," Mikasa said, resting her hand on the girl's quaking shoulder. "Why don't you lay down?"

Historia nodded vigorously, not bothering to look up, and Mikasa led her back into the hall, throwing a glance back at Levi. He watched them go with a neutral expression. Eren stood, suddenly alone with the three adults, and he too a deep breath in order to clear his mind. No, they were right. Getting angry wouldn't bring Armin home. But… fuck! It wasn't fair! How could this have happened?

_It's Armin_, Eren told himself, _he's good at getting his way_.

It wasn't fair…

"Are you sure," Eren said quietly, "that he ran away?"

"What do you mean?" Hange asked.

He looked at the three of them, and his brow furrowed. "I mean," he said, "he could've been kidnapped."

"Or tricked," Levi said, taking a sip of his tea. "It's not entirely impossible."

"But Armin's smart," Hange said. "Do you honestly think he'd be so easily trapped?"

"I dunno." Levi hunched over, his eyes moving from his tea to Hange's face. "But you know, Ymir, Bertholdt, Reiner, and Annie are still on the loose."

"What if they're together?" Hange gasped, their eyes brightening behind the glasses. "What if that's what Armin figured out?"

"Well, they're all kinda connected to the institution," Eren said slowly, rubbing his hair. "But Ymir is like… I dunno. She ain't… too keen on goin' back, I don't think."

"Ah, right," Hange said. "The Ymir-is-Ilse thing. Because cryogenics. That's all well and good, but if Ymir is the Ilse in the photographs, then who's been responsible for all the devastation we've seen?"

"Uh…" Eren grimaced, thinking very hard and very fast. He'd been trying _not_ to think about it, lest he get a headache. "Gosh, I dunno, ma. Clones?"

"Could be, could be," Hange said, nodding their head in a slow rhythm. They were in their thinking zone, so Eren could tell they were throwing around at least a dozen theories inside their head at once. "Clones, or some kind of relative, like with Ymir and Connie. Maybe Ymir's mother had more kids. Maybe we're missing something else, something crucial. Gah!" Hange rubbed their hair furiously, similarly to how Eren had only a minute before. "This is so frustrating! Why'd she run away?"

"Who started the fire?" Levi muttered, staring blankly ahead of him. "Eren said it for sure wasn't Ymir. So, then, who?"

They were all very quiet.

Erwin looked at Eren, his eyebrows furrowing and casting a great shadow over his eyes. "Can you describe how the fire started?"

See, Eren had been thinking about it a whole lot over the past few days. And none of it made sense. He had been playing it over in his head, and he recalled, with a shaky nausea, that he'd felt distinctly as though Armin had been in the room with him. But that was impossible. Armin had been at home. But, even Ymir had asked if Armin had been brought along. Her unease had been clear from the very start. She'd felt something in that room.

But it couldn't have been Armin. It just couldn't have been.

"It just… started…" Eren didn't know how to describe it. "Out of nowhere, I mean… I smelled the gasoline, and I… I heard it being poured, too. I don't know."

"That's very odd," Erwin said.

"Sounds like someone invisible did it," Levi said, glancing at Eren with his dark, drooping blue eyes. Eren shook his head furiously.

"Look, I don't know," he said. "It happened too fast."

"Did Ymir tell Connie anything more than she told you?" Hange asked curiously.

Eren shook his head somberly. He thought about the boy, thought about how his house was kinda a wreck and how everything sucked. He felt very guilty for that. At least Hange was already working on covering the damages, and getting the house fixed up.

"We should have a meeting," Erwin mused aloud. "Get everyone who's left together. We don't have the time anymore to dawdle and mull over what could be. We need to understand, and we need to find your father, Eren. Now."

"But we tried that," he said confusedly. "It didn't really work, did it? Because of the institute, and like, Ilse. And stuff."

"What if," Erwin said thoughtfully, "one of us turns ourselves in."

"Fuck no," Levi stated.

"Thank you for your input, Levi, but you should hear me out before you make your opinions." Erwin straightened up, looking straight into Eren's eyes, and he said very calmly, "What if we are all wrong about the facility's intentions?"

"What do you mean?" Eren asked slowly. He wandered over to a cabinet, grabbing a box of lucky charms and scooping up a fistful as he sat down. "Like, they ain't super evil and shady? 'Cause they sure as hell are."

"Eren, you had muscular dystrophy when you were younger, didn't you?" Erwin was speaking so very calmly, and Eren felt so very uncertain all of a sudden. He dropped his cereal into his mouth one piece at a time, chewing as he tried to wrap his head around this.

"Yeah…" he said, swallowing thickly. "Um, yeah, okay. So what?"

"Well," Erwin said, "I was blind when I entered the facility. They cured me."

"Wha—?" Eren sat back, looking around in alarm. Hange was standing by the sink, their eyes widening a little, while Levi simply sat and frowned. "For real? But—"

"Annie Leonhardt had leukemia," he continued, moving his spoon around his cup of coffee. "Reiner Braun, lung cancer, Bertholdt Hoover, melanoma. Do you see a pattern here, Eren?"

Eren sat in awe of this information. How? How had he not remembered that?

They'd cured them…?

Eren's eyes darted to Levi's face, and the man stared right back at him. _Oh my god_, Eren thought. _They were trying to save us?_

Eren felt like he'd been lied to for years and years, and suddenly his entire world-view was crashing down.

Dumb, dumb, dumb.

This was hella fuckin' dumb.

"Is that what these powers are for…?" Eren blinked rapidly as thought to clear his vision, clear his head, but nothing was working. "To battle whatever… was wrong with us before…?"

"Yes, I believe so," Erwin said. "I can't be certain why. I'd like to speak to Connie about this, because Ilse came to him directly when he was immobilized."

"They… they can't be good people though," Eren said faintly. "They killed Marco."

"Maybe Marco knew too much," Erwin said. "We don't know. But I do think our options should be kept open. If something were to happen… it may be that the facility is our only form of salvation."

"What are you saying, Erwin?" Levi asked quietly. His voice, per usual, was slow and coarse and monotone. "Something like what?"

Erwin smiled tightly. "Our conditions are so uncertain," he said. "Who knows what has truly been done to us, or how it's developed over the years. And, of course, there are the side effects that plague the children."

"My diabetes and narcolepsy?" Eren tossed his head back, dropping marshmallows into his mouth. "That's easy to treat, though."

"Schizophrenia, heart conditions, skin conditions, amongst other things." Erwin stood up. "Why don't you and Levi suit up?"

"But," Eren gasped, nearly choking on his cereal as he jumped to his feet, "Armin—!"

"He is a big boy, Eren," Erwin said firmly. "He'll be back."

"Hey, uh," Hange said with a little wave, "what about me?"

"I've got a different job for you, Hange," he said, glancing at Eren and Levi as Levi rose to his feet. When Eren didn't budge, Levi swatted his shoulder, a motion to move out, but Eren couldn't. He was caught up in what he knew was suspicious activity from Erwin. He was caught in fear of what might become of Armin. He was caught confused at what Erwin wanted Hange to do. It was all so dumb.

"A job?" Hange's eyes lit up.

"A request, actually…"

"C'mon, kid," Levi said, grabbing Eren by the shoulder. He shot one last urgent look at Hange before he turned away, slouching irritably as he trudged down the hall. Levi led him to Mikasa's room, entering without knocking and pausing as he looked around.

"You are a goddamn slob," he told Mikasa sharply. She was sitting on the bed with Historia, who was lying with her back turned toward the door. Levi seemed to notice that, and he hunched his shoulders reproachfully. "Is she sick?"

"No," Mikasa said. "No, I don't think so."

"Well, get her up. We're suiting up."

Mikasa's face darkened, much as he expected it to, and her nostrils flared. "Without Armin?" she asked with a severe bite to her tone. "No way."

"This isn't a question, Mikasa," Levi said. "Do as you're told."

"Levi, something is wrong," she said, lurching to her feet. "You know it. Erwin's not telling us something!"

"Erwin doesn't tell us a lot of things," Levi said. "So what?"

"So—" She gritted her teeth, her eyes flashing furiously. "So! Do something about it!"

"As much as I'd love to slug Erwin in the face," he said, "I've got no reason to. And neither do you. Just get dressed. And, I dunno. Get the little Armin clone some coffee, or something. She looks dead."

"Levi, what do you think?" Eren asked eagerly. "About one of us turning ourselves in?"

"What?" Mikasa asked flatly. Historia bolted upright, her eyes wide and somewhat… bewildered, or furious, or distraught. Eren couldn't tell. Perhaps it was a mixture of the three. "Fuck no."

"No one is turning themselves in," Levi said.

"Did Erwin say that?" Historia uttered softly. Eren nodded. She rubbed her face tiredly, and Eren wondered how she must feel. Ymir running away, then Armin. Without any warning. _Maybe I should let her punch me_, Eren thought brightly. _To get her anger all out!_ "I'll do it."

"No you won't," Eren told her very sharply, feeling aggravated and bemused.

"I can heal," she said.

"So can I, but I ain't volunteerin'!"

"But—!"

"Historia," Mikasa said, turning to face the tiny girl. "We won't have you put yourself in any sort of danger. You aren't disposable. Erwin was wrong to suggest this sort of thing. No one is going to do it, because everyone here is too important to lose."

"Including you," Eren said firmly. "So quit that shit, no one wants to hear any sorta self-sacrificial notions, 'cause they mean nothin'."

Historia stared at him with large eyes, her mouth parting in awe. Eren didn't get it. He didn't get her. She was so quiet and so distant, and then she spouted shit like that. She had zero fucking regard for her safety. _Holy shit_, Eren thought, staring into the tiny girl's awestruck eyes, _she's exactly like Armin_. Could that mean that Eren could handle her like he handled Armin?

Well, it couldn't hurt to try.

He strode over to her, hopping over the clothe-heaps Mikasa had left upon her floor, and he grabbed Historia's hands and yanked her to her feet. She wobbled a little, blinking at him with her gauzy blue eyes wide and uncertain. She was wearing a wrinkled skirt and thigh highs, making it clear that she had likely just passed out on Armin's bed when she'd returned with Erwin the previous night. Her eyes were droopy and sad, and they were lined with exhaustion and weariness. Pretty as she was, her eyes were jaded, empty things.

"If you're worried about Armin," Eren said, "don't be. He can get by on his own as good as anyone. And, like, there's gotta be a good reason why he didn't tell us where he was goin'. Just have a little faith in him, kay?" He was speaking to himself as much as to her.

She opened her mouth, and then promptly closed it. She was definitely wallowing, that was for sure, but Eren couldn't really understand why. Like, Armin wasn't stupid, right? No, he wasn't. So he was probably okay, even though Eren was a little bit worried himself, but he couldn't let Historia know that. And if she was sad because Ymir was gone, well, tough. It's not like she was alone.

"And anyway," Mikasa continued, "we need you. You might be able to heal yourself, but you can also heal others. That's more important. Way more important than all of our powers. Combined."

"That's pretty true," Eren admitted. Historia balked at that, her eyes darting between him and Mikasa, and her nose scrunching up confusedly. "How can strength even begin to compare to savin' lives? It totally can't."

"I…" Historia seemed to struggle with her words, her voice shaking as she spoke. "It's… I don't just… just save people, it's more complicated, it's—" Eren could see the tears in her eyes, and he put his hand on her head. He saw her flinch, but he paid no mind to it.

"C'mon," he said firmly. "We can't do this without you."

"I've killed someone," she blurted, her voice breaking miserably. "My powers aren't nice. They're terrible. They make me want to drain all the life out of people, they…!"

Eren glanced at Mikasa. She was edging closer to Historia, The tiny girl was trembling rather badly, and Eren felt a little guilty about that, but whatever. She could take it. She was Armin's sister, right? She could totally take it.

"Chill," Eren said, rustling her hair. She jumped, her body coiling and a sob escaping her trembling lips, and tears pooled inside her eyes as she scrubbed at them furiously. "You think we're some holy fuckin' saints, or some shit like that? Do you even know how many people I've put in the hospital by goin' Rogue, because it's a lot. Like, a whole lot."

She shook her head furiously, tangling her hair around his planted fingers and bowing her head in shame.

"I broke Armin's arm when we were little," Mikasa said. "I couldn't control my powers."

"Ymir murdered my mom by accident," Eren said, feeling his anger spike viciously, but even so, he kept it to a tiny snarl and a deep breath. "And Bertholdt too, I guess. And like, shit."

"Hey, you got him to calm down about that," Levi said flatly. "Impressive."

Historia dug the heels of her hands into her eyes and she sniffled and gasped and shook like a leaf. Eren continued to pat her head, rubbing it affectionately as he might do to Armin.

"And Levi's a serial killer," Eren piped up. "Like, seriously, we've all got our damage."

"Thank you for that, Eren," Levi said, "I wanted everyone to know about that. Real nice. You little shit."

Mikasa turned to face Levi, shooting him an angry look and moving toward him, motioning for him to shut up. Historia was openly crying, her little gasps bubbling up every few seconds as she covered her eyes with her hands and shook her head. Damn it, he hadn't wanted her to cry. This sucked. Had he just made things worse for her?

_What would I do if it was Armin?_ Eren asked himself as his hand moved to the back of her head, smoothing the tangles out of her hair.

He pulled her head to his chest, patting her back as she hiccupped, wiping the snot from her nose and sinking against him. _Okay_, he thought to himself, _okay, yeah. This could work. This will work. Hugs always work_. She was making the front of his tee shirt all wet, but he couldn't really find it in him to care, so he just hugged her with as little strength as possible, a little scared to like, crush her accidentally or something, and he glanced at Mikasa for reassurance. She shot him a thumbs up, and he could tell that she was proud of him, which was kinda annoying but also kinda sweet.

"So," Mikasa said conversationally as Historia pulled back, still hiccupping as she wiped away her tears. "A serial killer?"

Levi grimaced. "Only people that deserved it."

"Like Dexter," Eren said as Historia hung very close to his side. He wrapped his arm around her shoulder loosely, feeling as though if he let her go she might drift off into nothing.

"Not like Dexter," Levi said, looking a little disgruntled. "I didn't enjoy it that much."

"Okay, like Rorschach, then?" Eren tilted his head. "Yeah, you've got a total Rorschach thing goin' on, just way more sane."

"Rorschach, what is—?" Levi rolled his eyes, and he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Is that a superhero?"

"Uh, yeah?" Eren blinked confusedly, glancing from Historia to Mikasa in hopes that one of them might know what he was talking about. They both stared at him vacantly. Historia hiccupped, and wiped at her flushed cheeks. "_Watchmen_? Sweet Jesus, y'all are deprived."

"Is that a comic…?" Historia said hoarsely.

"Yeah, from the 80's," he said with a shrug, "but it's also a movie. The movie's actually okay, I mean as long as you watch the director's cut it's definitely—"

"Eren," Levi said sharply. "Focus."

"Oh, right." Eren rocked back on his heels. "What were we talking about?"

"Suiting up," Levi said. "All of you."

"Hate," Mikasa muttered, drifting back to Eren and Historia. Levi glowered at her back.

"Don't forget who raised you," he said darkly.

"You did a pretty shitty job."

"Yeah. Clearly."

"Get out of my room," she said flatly.

Levi kicked a bundle of dirty clothes at her, which she caught with great ease. "Clean it," he snapped as he whirled around.

She flipped her middle finger at him with a slight sneer as he left the room. "What an asshole," she spat.

"They're all kinda assholes," Eren admitted. "Except Hange. Hange's only flaw is their smoking."

"Was that a joke?" Historia asked quietly.

"Uh…" Eren frowned. "Well, mostly. Oh, so are you okay now?"

"Yeah…" She nodded quickly, ducking her head so he couldn't see her red-rimmed eyes. "Thank you, Eren… that was really sweet of you…"

"Nah, I wasn't doin' it to be sweet," he said, wrinkling his nose. "I was doin' it 'cause you kinda really needed a hug. Hugs are the best healers, that's what Hange always says."

Historia stared at him. He blinked rapidly, wondering if he'd said something wrong, and he quickly unwound his arm from her shoulder. She looked, for a moment, strangely content as she nodded. She sniffled a little bit, her breathing a little shallow, but otherwise she seemed better.

"I'm… going to go get ready," she said thickly, slumping as she hurried out of the room. Eren and Mikasa watched her go.

"Nice," she said.

"Oh, shut up," he sighed, rubbing his head in irritation. "What would you have done?"

"I don't know," she admitted, sitting back down on her bed. "Maybe the same thing. Maybe I would've punched her."

"No you would not have, don't even lie."

Mikasa cracked a small smile, and she flopped back onto her bed and sighed. "I don't want to do this," she admitted.

That was surprising. Of course Eren had known Mikasa didn't want to do this, but the fact that she was vocalizing it was strange. Usually she just quietly went along with what they were supposed to do, playing her role to its fullest. But she seemed to genuinely not want to do this mission. It wasn't even a hard one, either? They were just… meeting up.

"Then don't come," Eren said.

She sat upright once more, her expression fierce. "What?" she asked blandly.

"Don't come," he said, shrugging. "Stay here and wait for Armin if you hate it so much. You don't really need to come, right?"

"Of course I'm coming," she said fiercely. "I can't just not come."

"But…?" Eren's brow furrowed, and he flung up his hands. "Okay, whatever. Your brain's weird. Have fun being grumpy the entire time."

"I am not grumpy—!"

Eren left the room, shutting the door behind him. The house was so… quiet. He'd grown used to all the noise, all the people roaming around, and it sort of made him ache inside to realize that none of them were coming back. Except Armin, of course. But even so, he felt a strange gnawing in the pit of his stomach, a sense of dread that could not leave him, and he wondered if he was being paranoid or if he truly had a reason to be worried.

It was Armin's birthday. Why had he left on his fucking birthday?

And he was still really angry. Like, really fucking angry. But he was containing that anger. Because… no one needed to deal with his bullshit right now. And… it was a little unwarranted. Kinda. _Ugh_, he thought, kicking open his door. _Why is everything so complicated?_

He got dressed into his Rogue uniform, which… shit. Barely fit him. Had he grown? He must have grown. It was really snug, and sort of uncomfortable, but it had been awhile since he'd last worn it. He slapped on a mask, glancing at himself in the mirror and tilting his head. Rogue and Eren existed one and the same. But now it felt a little weird donning a mask. He didn't save innocent bystanders anymore, or catch robbers, or put out fires. The investigation had consumed his entire life.

It made him oddly sad. And nostalgic.

He hopped up onto a stool while he waited for Historia and Mikasa to be finished getting ready, staring at Hange expectantly. They were holding Armin's Cicero costume, frowning at the blurry squiggles that graced the white fabric, unmoving and dull in comparison to the ever-changing words that clung to Armin's sides whenever he moved.

"What'cha up to?" Eren asked, resting his chin in his hands.

"Scrutinizing," they hummed. "Wanna join?"

"What're we scrutinizin' today?" he asked, leaning forward and squinting exaggeratedly at the uniform. "How damn skinny Armin is?"

"Aha, nope!" Hange grinned at him, folding the uniform over their arm. "How this thing works. Like, isn't so strange? Without Armin here, the suit is just a suit. There aren't any words, and the ink doesn't move at all!"

"Well, it reacts with his power, doesn't it?" Eren asked confusedly. Where were they going with this?

"Yeah, yeah," they gasped, their shoulders hunching, "but _how_?"

"Gosh, I dunno," he said. "It's Armin. He's like, magic."

"Magic is just science we don't understand yet," Hange chirped.

"You got that from _Thor_!"

"Arthur C. Clarke, actually."

They winked at him. Historia appeared beside him, her long purple cloak trailing at her feet. Her hood would just about cover her face, and serve as a mask of sorts. Which was good. She had a recognizable face, it seemed. Of course, Mikasa and Eren had much more distinguishing features, so they were probably more likely to get caught.

"Did Armin ever tell you how his suit worked, by any chance?" Eren asked her. He didn't really expect her to know. Armin honestly probably didn't even know. But it didn't hurt to ask.

"Um…" She glanced between him and Hange. "No…?"

"Shame," Hange sighed loftily. "Oh well."

"He didn't… tell me a lot," Historia said softly. "I wouldn't know more than anyone else… about that kind of stuff…"

Eren studied her face. She'd pulled her hair back in a loose ponytail, and little bits of pale hair framed her face. She still looked a little weepy, but otherwise a lot better for wear. Beneath the cloak she was wearing leggings and a pale dress that was either blue or white, he couldn't tell. The deep purple washed it out. The deep purple actually washed her out, too. She looked kinda sickly.

"Do you like musicals?" Eren asked curiously.

She gave him a sharp, incredulous look. "What?" she asked blankly.

"Like, y'know. Wicked, or Les Misery—"

"Eren, you know that's not what it's called—"

"Or any Disney movie ever. Stuff like that."

"Uh…" She looked utterly stunned, her lips parted as her eyes flashed, and he knew he'd made her uncomfortable. "I… liked _The Hunchback of Notre Dame_?"

"Oh, hey!" Eren cried. "That's my favorite!"

"Wait… really?"

"He likes Esmeralda a whole lot, that's why," Hange laughed. Eren shot them a dull glare.

"Well, I was just wonderin' if you liked 'em," Eren said, choosing to ignore Hange. "I mean, Armin loves them. And, like, you like some stuff Armin likes. The horror stuff. Which is pretty cool, but he likes, like, psychological horror, and I'm like…?" Eren leaned back in his stool, his face twisting into a grimace. "Dude, what is wrong with plain ol' trashy horror movies?"

"I like both," she said gently, sitting down carefully beside him. "I think the terrible ones are funny."

"Yeah, that's the best part!"

"Armin only prefers psychological horror, I think, because generic horror bores him." She pursed her lips, giving Eren a thoughtful glance, and she shrugged. "I don't think it's a bad thing."

"Y'know, that actually makes a lot of sense." Eren rested a hand on his fist. "Never thought of it that way."

"I can't read his mind, so I don't really know," she blurted. "Don't take my word for it."

"Nah, you're probably right."

He'd been trying to keep his mind off Armin, but Armin was everywhere. Armin was in the very folds of this household, in the heavy air that they breathed, in their minds even when he was too far to taste, and he was in Historia Reiss's face and in her gauzy eyes as she blinked at him vacantly, like a child or something, like a little kid Eren used to know but was scared that he might've lost somewhere. He didn't know what to do.

He didn't know if he was grown up enough for this.

He always kinda thought he was grown up enough, that he wasn't a child anymore, but with Armin gone it was like being ten years old again. There was a empty, aching fear that swallowed up his heart, the steady rhythm of panic as it drummed against his ribs and crawled up his throat. He didn't want to be alone again. That would be… the worst thing in the world.

When Mikasa and Levi finally decided to appear, they set off. Eren was still toiling with his own thoughts and feelings, sorta on the edge of losing it, but mostly feeling like he had to get calm quick, or else he'd just fuck things up. But his thoughts were calling into the void, trying to tether to a mind that they could not reach, and it was difficult to focus on anything but the strange, vacuous silence.

"What if Armin comes back," Eren mused aloud as they landed in Chicago. Apparently someone had called Jean. Eren didn't really care. "And, like, we're not there. It's his birthday, we should be there."

"He ran off," Levi said. "Not our problem."

"No, that's not true at all," Eren said, feeling desperate to prove to Levi that Armin wasn't the terrible person he thought he was.

"Whatever."

Jean ended up plopping in the seat behind Mikasa, right beside Historia, and he looked around tiredly. The sun was pouring light through the windows of the jet, turning everything a painfully bright white. Jean was wearing sunglasses with his bulletproof uniform, his hair in disarray and his lips parted.

"Get wrecked," Eren commented. Jean lowered his sunglasses, and Eren saw, incredibly amused, that his eyes were totally bloodshot and puffy.

"It's like, seven in the morning… on a goddamn Sunday," Jean said in a coarse voice. "_You_ get fucking wrecked."

"Pretty sure you're already wrecked."

"What did you tell your mom this time?" Mikasa asked.

"Uh, nothing." Jean slid his glasses back up, and he settled into his seat. "I just left."

"She ain't gonna call you, or nothin'?" Eren scoffed. "If I did that to Hange, they'd probably kick my ass, or like, pour chemicals on my jeans, or somethin'."

"I'll just tell her I went to the gym, or something." Jean sneered at Eren, and it made his face look even more unpleasant to look at. "Like, it's not a big deal. Hey, wait, where's Armin?"

Historia sighed beside him, and Eren twisted in his seat to get a better look at her. She yanked up her hood and sunk very low, bundling herself up in her purple cloak and looking as though she wanted to disappear completely. Eren didn't blame her. She was probably still worried about Armin, just like he was. For her it was probably worse. She'd been with him. Maybe she felt like she could've stopped him, or gone with him. Eren would feel a lot better if Historia was with him, actually.

"Uh…" Jean sounded so hopelessly, stupidly confused. It was hilarious. "Okay, either something bad happened, or Historia just became a burrito because she's cold."

"Armin ran off last night," Mikasa explained.

Eren hung over his seat, watching Historia peek out from under her hood. She looked even worse than Jean. Her eyes were bloodshot, puffy, and sunken into her face. She looked like she hadn't slept at all. She looked like she was about to burst into tears again. Eren felt bad for her, but at the same time he didn't get it. What the fuck was so bad that she was so distant, anyway? Did she really need Ymir back that bad? Like, Armin was gone, and Eren wasn't outwardly sulky about it!

Whiny, a little, yeah, okay, but not sulky!

Uh… right?

"What do you mean, he ran off?" Jean asked. "How does that even happen?"

"He took the Knight Bus to the Leaky fuckin' Cauldron," Eren replied. His voice was clipped and sardonic. "How the hell do you think it happened?"

"Well, I don't know!" Jean was sneering again. "I'm lucky if I'm even in the loop half the time with you people!"

"Connie and Sasha are way worse off, you know, we hardly ever tell them anything."

"Which might be why," Jean said, rolling his eyes, "you know, Connie didn't tell us about his great aunt Ymir."

"Ymir is Connie's great aunt?" Historia piped up, pulling her hood back ever so slightly. She looked genuinely curious, her eyes brightening up considerably.

"We should really work on that communication thing, actually," Eren said, rubbing his head irritably.

The rest of the trip was mildly amusing. Levi and Erwin bickered a little, which was incredibly fun to listen to, if only because it was Levi and Erwin. Levi was just being… well, kinda an asshole, honestly, while Erwin was reacting as Erwin tended to. Placidly, with a level tone and easy words. Eren wondered what it'd be like to be raised by him. Probably a little frightening.

"Hey, I've got a question," Eren called, mustering up his courage. Levi didn't even bother glancing at him. Erwin was too busy piloting. He took their mutual silence as a go ahead. "So why did you two never adopt Armin and Mikasa?"

"_What_?" Mikasa asked sharply, looking at him as though he'd just punched her in the gut, or something even more heinous like stab her in the arm.

"Well, sorry, I wanna know," he told her.

"It's not quite as simple as you might think it is, Eren," Erwin offered. His voice was light, but Eren could hear how hard and cold it was underneath the exterior, and he wondered what this man was feeling. Why he was steeling himself all of a sudden.

"Yeah, uh," Levi said, "I can't adopt Mikasa because of my drug problems."

"Wait," she said in a very quiet voice, "what?"

"Yeah, I'm not allowed," he said, blinking back at her. "What's that face for, brat?"

"How do you know that for sure…?" she asked, sitting very still and looking very alarmed.

Levi was staring at her, and Eren felt a little guilty now for asking. It really hadn't been any of his business, but he'd really wanted to know. But now Levi was looking at Mikasa with a strange resignation in his eyes. It was too strange to see, and too hard to look away.

"I've already been evaluated," he said, "in terms of if legal adoption is a suitable option. They pretty much told me I can't adopt ever. I have a criminal record, for one thing, and a pretty nasty one at that. Drug addiction. I was abused as a kid, and they took that into account because of how fucked up I already appeared to be to them. The only reason why I'm allowed to keep you is because I started going by the legal name Ackerman, so it looks like I'm related to you."

Eren was staring at Levi, so he didn't see Mikasa's expression when he felt her slump in her seat. _But that's not fair_, Eren thought. _That's not fair at all!_ But he couldn't say anything, and he was suddenly aware of the enormity of it all. He'd always thought, in terms of Levi's terrible past, that he could always just look to the future to get through it. But that wasn't true. His past would follow him everywhere. He'd be attempting to shake off his previous mistakes until he reached his grave. And that… was unbelievably sad.

"You never told me that," Mikasa said quietly.

"I didn't think it mattered." Levi turned away from them, and Eren glanced at Mikasa's face. She looked stricken, her lips parted and her shoulders hunched, and he wished he could hear her thoughts, or mentally reassure her somehow, but there was nothing binding their minds together, and Eren was lost. Armin was such a powerful glue. What could they do without him?

It was very quiet in the plane for about a minute as this information settled in their brains. Not even Jean, as mouthy as he was, spoke up to comment. Eren knew that Hange was powerful, so it probably made sense that they could easily adopt when people less fortunate like Levi had to face the reality of the system. _Can't Hange just adopt everyone?_ Eren found himself thinking. It was a silly thought, a desperate thought, and he imagined going back in time and being able to play with his friends in Hange's apartment while Hange made fun science experiments and taught them about stars and light and the Doppler effect.

"I've actually been putting off adopting Armin," Erwin said, "because I'm not sure if that's what he wants."

"Wow, that's dumb," Eren said flatly. "Of course that's what he wants."

"You've got no tact at all, do you?" Jean muttered from behind him. Eren shot him a glare.

"Sorry, what? Am I really getting judged by a horse-faced stoner, because that's fuckin' hilarious, please, go on."

"What the fuck is your issue, man?"

Eren opened his mouth to retort that Jean should get baked on his own time, and that he looked like he'd just crawled out of a dumpster, but Mikasa pulled on his ear sharply. Perhaps she'd sensed where his thoughts had been heading. Maybe they didn't really need the mindlink after all.

"Erwin," Historia called, straightening up in her seat. "You should adopt him. While you still can."

Eren wrenched his face away from Mikasa's grasp. "What's that supposed to mean?" he asked the tiny girl.

She said nothing. She stared at him with her dull blue eyes heavily lidded, and she kept her mouth firmly shut. Eren didn't get it.

"Armin's sixteen now," Mikasa reminded Eren. "He'll be eighteen in two years."

"Well, that's silly." Eren kind of regretted bringing this up now.

They landed in Oregon after a few hours, meeting up with Sasha and Connie as they entered the hospital. Without Armin to make them invisible they got a lot of unwanted attention. Eren wondered if that was what Erwin wanted. If this was all a gamble. They quickly explained what happened to Bertholdt and Reiner, and then about Armin's disappearance, covering the basics of what they missed the past few days.

"You did a ballet?" Sasha asked Mikasa eagerly. "That's so cool!"

"Yeah, my feet are still blistered," she admitted. Her voice was a little muffled by her Nio mask. Eren looked between her and Levi, who wore a mask nearly identical as Freiheit. It was actually pretty interesting to see, because Eren had never seen them on a mission together before.

"We were wondering if you guys were actually gonna make it," Connie said, bouncing relatively fast as they moved up the stairwell to the Burn unit. "What with the blizzard, and stuff."

"Blizzard?" Eren asked confusedly. "What the sweet hoppin' hell?"

Sasha giggled into her hand, likely at his accent, which forced him to glower at her. Why was it so funny when his drawl became really thick, like what was with that? He couldn't help but flush in embarrassment.

"Y'know, that huge blizzard…?" Connie stared at them with his acutely shaped eyebrows furrowing. "The east coast got slammed with snow a few hours ago."

"Not New York," Mikasa said.

"Yeah, no." Eren shook his head. "There wasn't a blizzard when we left."

"Apparently Massachusetts got it real bad," Sasha said, adjusting the strap of her quiver. "But we only caught a little bit of Good Morning America before you guys showed up."

"Isn't it a little early for blizzards, though?" Connie whined. "I mean, it was just Halloween!"

"It's very strange," said Erwin. His voice was flat. Emotionless. Carefully devoid of any emotion. Eren studied his back suspiciously, and he glanced at Mikasa. They'd had the same thought again. It was clear by the way her dark eyes swiveled to his face, and then to Historia.

Something was definitely up.

They came upon Petra's room, and Eren was relieved to see her sitting up in bed. She glanced at them, and she waved a little meagerly. Aside from her elevated, bandaged leg, she seemed to be okay. She had her laptop resting on one leg, and she was typing one-handed as they entered.

"Friction, Freeshooter," Erwin said. Or, by the sound of his voice, ordered. "Stay outside. Guard the door."

"Um…?" Sasha and Connie glanced at each other. Then finally, Connie shrugged, and in a great blur of green he was gone, and a burst of air was left in his wake. Sasha followed him without comment, throwing a curious glance back at them.

"Nio," Erwin ordered, "Freiheit. Stand by the window."

They did not make any sort of objections as they moved to the window, Mikasa standing on the left and Levi standing on the right. Their twin Nio masks looked rather ominous in the shadow of the morning light that trailed into the cramped hospital room.

"Rogue, Vitae," Erwin said quietly, "by me."

Eren hesitantly went to Erwin's side, while Historia looked a little more apprehensive. Jean was standing alone, looking puzzled as he glanced between the door and the window. Eren was getting the distinct feeling in the pit of his stomach, like something really terrible was about to happen. Erwin would know.

"Vitae," Erwin said, a warning held sternly in his voice. Historia stood, her purple hood shrouding her face, and she stiffened when he called out to her.

"Er— Augur," she started in her soft little voice, "what did you—?"

"This isn't request, Vitae. Stand beside me." Erwin's voice was so demanding that Eren found himself alarmed, and a little intimidated. Actually, a lot intimidated.

Historia hesitantly walked to Erwin's side, her head bowed and her body coiled with tension. Eren wondered what she knew. He wondered what was going to happen. _This can't be good, can it?_ He glanced around, and his eyes settled on Jean, who looked completely lost.

"Heal her," Erwin said. "Quickly."

Historia didn't need to be told that twice. She leaned forward, pushing her cloaked back and laying her hands over Petra's leg. Petra looked a little bemused as Historia's fingers twitched against the air, drawing little shapes until suddenly the air grew thick and light bloomed from her fingers, golden and stretching thickly all up her arms and around Petra's leg, energy roaring into life and flashing in the dim blue of Historia's eyes. The gold stretched until it snapped, and it burst all across the room, bouncing light in every corner and cranny until it was everywhere at once, and then suddenly nowhere at all.

She took a step back, her head bowed, and she nodded curtly to Erwin. Petra looked bewildered, and she reached up to touch her bandaged leg.

"Holy—!" she cried, her lips quirking into a disbelieving grin.

"Freiheit," Erwin barked, "Ricochet. Get her out of here. Now."

"What?" Jean asked sharply. Levi had already started forward, while Erwin looked toward the window with a hard expression. He pushed Historia very carefully behind him, his arm hovering protectively over her head.

"She's going to get shot," Erwin said. "Soon. Within the minute. Freiheit?"

"I've got her," Levi said quietly. He'd picked up Petra, much to her dismay, for she was flushing and reaching rather desperately for her laptop, her arms flailing mildly.

"Wait, wait!" she gasped. "My computer!"

"Not important," Levi said, carrying her to the doorway. Jean followed hesitantly, his eyes darting from Erwin to Levi to Mikasa. He'd pulled out one of his guns.

"Like hell, it's not important!" She twisted in his grasp, her bandaged foot kicking up as she peeked over his shoulder. "Jea— uh, Ricochet, right? Grab my computer!"

"Jeez," Jean muttered, turning back to the bed and slamming her laptop shut. "What's even on here now? More names?"

"Locations," she corrected. "Actually. As in, I was able to trace where the other institute buildings are. You know, Rose in Oklahoma, and then Sina in Massachusetts. I even got some good images of them, so you guys can infiltrate—"

"Rogue!" Erwin shouted, rounding on Eren. "Now. Do it now!"

At first Eren had no idea what he was talking about, and he took a tiny, fearful step back. And then he looked toward the window, and he understood. He grabbed his wrist and twisted it sharply until he felt his bone snap, and he gritted his teeth as the fracture sent pain shooting up his arms and through his nerves until his nerves jutted out of his skin in glistening red ribbons, steam rising from his skin as lightning darted around his fingers as bone and muscle and nerves bundled around his broken appendage, shooting outward and wrapping rapidly like weaving snakes in a great succession of mass.

Just as a bullet shattered the window, Rogue's hand smashed through the wall. Eren felt the bullet imbed in his palm, and the entire room quaked as the wall collapsed under the force of his giant arm crashing into it. Mikasa jumped away, landing with ease on Petra's bed and crouching as her fingers flew to the pummel of her sword.

"Get Petra out of here!" Erwin shouted as the ceiling cracked, and dust leaked across the air, showering them in powdery white.

Jean and Levi fled the room, and Mikasa unsheathed her sword as she leapt off the bed. "What now?" she asked as Eren withdrew his massive fist from the wall.

Erwin inhaled very sharply. Perhaps he didn't know. He'd stopped one future from happening, but what could possibly happen next? Eren squinted through the dust and rubble and he saw a figure kneeling on the roof across from them. Mikasa seemed to have noticed as well, because she backed away, her boots cracking against sheetrock as she called behind her.

"Sasha! I need your bow."

"Huh?" Sasha poked her head in, hunched over with her arms folded protectively over her head. "For what? What're you gonna—?" And then she seemed to see as well. She straightened up, and she shook out her bow, drawing an arrow from her quiver.

"Who is that?" Sasha whispered, notching the arrow.

"Kenny Ackerman," Mikasa growled. Eren was surprised at how furious she was. "Can you get a clear shot at him?"

"You want me to shoot _him_?" She sounded distressed, and her eyes flashed very wide. And then she squinted through the dust, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "No, it's too dusty. I can definitely get onto the roof, though."

"No, Sasha," Mikasa said firmly. "You're not going. He's too good at hand-to-hand, and you haven't got any powers."

"I'll go," Eren gasped, wrenching his hand free as his Rogue arm unraveled. There was so much steam and dust in the room now, he could hardly breathe, let alone see. "I can heal."

"No way!" Mikasa gasped. "He's too fast, you wouldn't be able to—"

"Yo, I'm drawing," Sasha said, pulling her bowstring taut. "Whoever is going, make up your minds!"

Eren shook off the excess nerves, steam clouding his vision as he squinted at Mikasa's face. She was very clearly not very happy about any of this, her dark eyes flashing beneath the slits of her mask, but she had no choice. He was beginning to feel the pressure here, amongst the smoke and dust and frigid air, and he felt it bite into his bones.

"Let's go together," he said to her. He offered out his hand.

Sasha released her arrow, and it sailed through the air, a strong cord snapping taut as it took purchase on the opposite roof. Mikasa grabbed his hand and pulled him forward, throwing her sword over the cable so the long silvery fabric that kept it attached to its sheath bundled around it, and she grasped her hilt in order to make a closed hoop. Then, suddenly, she was dragging him into open air.

It was exhilarating, yes, and mildly terrifying as his body hung limply by only his arm in her vise grip. Every muscle in him was screaming, and his shoulder was aching terribly from having to support all his weight as they sailed through the air, his stomach utterly left behind in the rubble and dust, and he felt like he'd been filled with something like bubbles or helium or a thousand flittering butterflies battering at his innards. He was breathless, and he could not see in the rush of wind and in the warm mist of his own breath, and suddenly he was rolling on the sharp gravel of a rooftop.

He rolled onto his feet, his hand in his fist, and he watched Mikasa as she spun on the tips of her toes to duck a blow from this old man who'd put both her and Levi in the hospital. She ducked, and flung her sword at him, retrieving and whipping it away at just the right moment so he could not grasp the silvery fabric attached to its pummel.

"I thought I told you," Mikasa spat, sounding breathless as she flipped away from his flying fists. Her boots kicked up grayish gravel, spitting it into the air as she dodged another blow, and then another, on the tips of her toes and swirling as though in a sequence of dance. "Leave us alone!"

"You've got guts, kiddo!" Kenny Ackerman laughed as he kicked her very hard in the stomach, and she made a sharp choking noise as her body skidded across the expanse of the roof, her arms and legs flipping over each other as she struggled to stop. "Hell of a lot more than your little whore of a father."

The sound Mikasa made from across the roof was like an animal snatching its prey, a feral snarl that tore across the air as she leapt to her feet. "You don't know _anything_!" she rasped, holding her sword in a reverse grip as her body curled back defensively.

"Brat, _you_ don't know anything," Kenny said, pulling a gun from beneath his coat and pointing it at her. "Your papa's pretty gross. Spent lots of time sleepin' around. With all sorts of nasty people. Boys and girls, old and young! You'd be so much better off without him."

Eren snapped his wrist again, letting the feeling of Rogue's flesh enveloping his arm overwhelm him. He was enraged. This was utter bullshit! Levi could be… well, an asshole, undeniably, but he didn't deserve any of this. _Isn't this guy his father? _Eren thought vehemently as his Rouge fist smashed into the ground where Kenny had been standing a split second before. The roof cracked beneath the weight, and gravel coughed up all around him, imbedding in his skin as he reached out. Four gunshots force Eren to bite his tongue, four bullets completely tearing apart one of his fingers at point blank range. Kenny jumped atop Eren's knuckled and started running.

Eren shook him off like he might shake off a bug, and he stumbled back when that didn't work, and Kenny landed beside him. _Aw,_ Eren thought as his arm unraveled once again, his body not up for the stress it took to keep one limb at Rogue size for longer than a minute. He hadn't eaten much that morning, and he'd probably burned away any nutrition the cereal had given him. _Fuck_.

He attempted to punch Kenny in face, his dark fist flying against the icy air, but he was caught completely off guard by the speed of this man's reflexes, and he jerked away at the last second, grasping Eren forearm and twisting it behind his back. Eren cried out in shock, not used to being so quickly apprehended, and he felt something very cold kiss the back of his neck. He shuddered, feeling nausea crawl around inside the pit of his stomach as every hair on his body stood on end and his breath caught inside his throat.

"Kay, girly," Kenny Ackerman said, digging the barrel of his gun into the nape of Eren's neck. "Put that sword away. Nice and slow."

Eren watched, horrified, as Mikasa stood frozen only a few yards away, her body caught in mid-motion. She'd been running to his aid, but Kenny was too fast. _We fucked up_, Eren thought, sweat prickling on his brow as his heart thudded in his chest.

"Mikasa, don't—!" he cried as she shoved her sword back into the sheath at the small of her back. She bowed her head, her mask askew. She was staring at him, her eyes shadowed and her body tense. Kenny kicked the back of his knees, and he was forced to genuflect, his breathing growing ragged as he realized the true enormity of the situation at him. A bullet to the back of his neck would kill him.

That was for certain.

"Okay, okay, nice." Kenny's voice was coarse, but strangely loud and excited. Levi's voice was always soft and monotone, if not chilly and distant. "Now that I've got your undivided attention, let me let you in on a little secret. Levi owes me his goddamn sanity. When I found him, he was a broken little toy brought out into the light every once and awhile to be fucked at leisure. I gave him a purpose beyond that." Eren felt sick to his stomach. "Take off that mask. It's annoying."

Mikasa hesitantly pushed her Nio mask onto her head, baring her face to them. She looked absolutely livid, her teeth bare and her eyes flashing dangerously. Eren was trying to think fast, but the problem was that he really _couldn't _think. He was lost in his own head, and there was a gun against his weak spot, and this guy was manipulating Mikasa, and it was a little terrifying.

"What do you want?" Eren asked sharply. "Like, why are you assholes even after Petra, anyway?"

"Ha ha," Kenny snorted, "this kid's got guts too. Now, you're Grisha's kid, right?"

Eren thought his heart might've stopped in that moment. His father. Yes, his father. Shit. His father. "How do you know him?" Eren blurted, staring wide eyed at Mikasa as she stared right back at him, looking wary and hardened. He could tell she was scared, though. It was written in the way she held herself. She was scared out of her wits, just like Eren.

"Eh, I met him a few times here and there. You've got a lot more spunk then him, lemme tell you. How about I take you to him, kid?"

Eren nearly laughed. "No thanks," he spat. "I'll pass." But in the back of his mind, a part of him wondered. _If I can get to my dad_, Eren thought wildly, _can't I help Armin out with his headaches? And the seizures? And the hallucinations?_

"Or," Kenny said, easing very low so his breath tickled Eren's ear, "I could just blow your head off."

"Was this ever about Petra?" Mikasa asked, her voice thin. "Or do you just like threatening people?"

"Uh, both, honestly!" Kenny's voice was too loud. Eren thought if he could just get the gun off him for two seconds, he'd probably… be able to escape… probably… "Apparently the chick's been a pest, so taking her out was the objective. You two are a way better prize, though."

"How's the shoulder, then?" Mikasa asked dully.

"You're testing my patience, girly."

Mikasa took a deep, unsteady breath. Wind howled against Eren's ears, toying with his and Mikasa's hair was they stared each other down. He didn't know what to do. On one hand, life was pretty nice, and seeing his dad could help Armin, and possibly Levi, but then there was that whole stubbornness thing which was the whole reason why Eren was still debating. Also, Levi's dad was a scumbag, and Eren was going to try to rip his tongue out from his throat.

There was the faint sound of something whooshing, and before Eren could even turn his head, Kenny Ackerman was suddenly on the ground, and gravel was spitting into Eren's face. He stared in awe and confusion at the blur of green that whirred to kick the man in the face, and then kicked his gun over the side of the building. Then, the blur was on the other side of the roof, bouncing on his feet. _Connie_, Eren thought in amazement. He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he looked up as Historia knelt down beside him.

"You're not hurt," she asked, sounding genuinely concerned as she searched his face, "are you?"

"Well, you'd know, right?" he offered weakly. She smiled, and she took his hand, pulling him to his feet.

"You're okay," she said, pulling him toward the zipline cord that Sasha's arrow had made. "Come on, we should—" A gunshot tore across the thin morning air, sharper than the frigid November wind and louder than its terrible wail. Eren felt something whizz past his ear.

Warm blood burst across his face.

It was so hot against the frosty lash of wind upon Eren's cheeks, it almost burned him. He felt it on his nose, trickling down warmly against the grooves of his lips. He felt it cling to his eyebrows, and he could smell it as it washed over his skin. His mouth fell open in horror, and it poured into his mouth, acrid and metallic as it signed his tongue.

Historia's forehead had a peculiar little hole in it. Blood seemed to be painted across her pale hair, smeared over her eyelids and sliding fast over her tiny nose in thick rivulets. Eren remembered how Armin had looked when Eren's blood had soaked his face. And suddenly he felt like he was going to puke.

"Historia—!" He reached out to catch her, but four bullets crashed into his back and he buckled at the familiar pain, the familiar crushing feeling of bullets crashing into him. He heard Mikasa's shouts as he buckled to his knees, and his hair was yanked back. Eren didn't have the energy to become Rogue. And even if he did, he'd take down the entire building. He hadn't planned this well. _If only Armin were here_, Eren thought distantly as Kenny Ackerman pressed the barrel of this new gun to Eren's forehead. The pain wasn't so agonizing, but he could feel his skin healing around the bullets.

Historia was lying on her side, her dull eyes glassy, foggy with death. And Eren didn't know what to do.

"You—" Eren choked, dizzy and sickened and ready to rip the entire world apart. "You fuckin' _**bastard**_—!"

"Aha, oopsie," Kenny said. "Did I kill one of your little friends? Actually, hold on a moment. I should make sure she wasn't important, probably."

Eren wanted to scream. He listened to Kenny dial on his cell phone, and he Eren closed his eyes as the gun's barrel scraped the sweaty skin of his forehead. He didn't want to look at Historia's face. It looked too much like Armin's.

"Yo," Kenny said into his phone, "so I might've shot one of them. A complete accident, of course."

"I'm gonna to kill you," Eren snarled. His eyes snapped open just as Kenny's gun came smashing upon the side of Eren's face, forcing him to eat gravel as his ears rung, and his head throbbed, and his back attempted to heal itself as it zapped away all his energy at once. He was so tired… couldn't he just sleep now…? Maybe…?

Fuck this.

"The little blonde girl," Kenny was saying. "Cute. It was annoying me."

Eren looked up, his entire body objecting to even the slightest movement, and he saw Mikasa holding Connie back, staring at him with wild eyes. Eren wasn't terrified anymore. He was disgusted. He was so disgusted, in fact, that his rage was overtaking him, and he thought he might just transform somehow into Rogue anyway, just to rip Kenny Ackerman apart. He deserved it. He deserved it like no one on this earth deserved to suffer.

"Did you now? Dead or alive?" Kenny kicked Eren in the face. Eren saw nothing but a blinding rush of white, and his nose _crunched_ as he head was turned to the gravel once more. He swallowed thickly, Historia's cooling blood still burning inside of his mouth, searing his tongue with its very existence, and it mingled with his own blood, hot and fresh and congealing.

"Okay, okay. You want a matching set, I get it. Add it to your little blonde corpse collection. Have at it." Kenny hung up, his boot resting on Eren's cheek. He could feel the grooves of the shoe soles, feel the dirt smear against his skin, mixing with Historia's blood. Eren needed to find a weapon. He needed to find something, he needed to _do_ something!

"Hey," Kenny said, prodding Eren's cheek with his toe. "Kid. I've got an even better proposition for you."

"Fuck no," Eren spat, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. He was close to tears, close to sobbing, close to screaming until his lungs collapsed. He was so close to letting himself be consumed by his grief and rage, he didn't even care about the smug look on Kenny's face.

"C'mon, kid. Hear me out!" Kenny pointed his gun at Mikasa then, and Eren wondered if she had attempted to move. "So, looks like the bossman's got a little somethin'. He's willing to negotiate."

"Negotiate?' Eren coughed, and he bared his teeth. No. There would be no negotiations. Just… pain. For them. "Tell your bossman… to go throw himself on a rusty fuckin' railroad spike!"

"Come with me," the man said, "and you can see Armin Arlelt again."

Eren stared up at him. Blood was obscuring his vision. Historia's blood. Historia, Armin's sister. Who was lying dead right beside him. Tears rushed into his eyes. No. This wasn't right. It didn't make sense. None of this made sense, it wasn't fair!

"Liar," Eren whispered, his voice shaky. "You're bluffing."

"Yeah, uh, I don't know who this Armin kid is," Kenny said, lifting his boot from Eren's face. "But, apparently he's not doing so hot. This might be your last chance to ever see him, if he means anything to you. Bossman thinks he does."

Eren was breathing rather heavily. He was lying. He had to be lying. It made no sense that the institute would have Armin. Unless…?

_Erwin and Armin think the same_, Eren thought in horror. _Armin wouldn't… Armin didn't turn himself in, right? No, he couldn't. He wouldn't!_

"Thank you."

Eren heard a soft little voice speak up from beside him. He turned his head, and watched Historia Reiss, her blood dripping down her pretty little face, slithering against her rosy skin as she sat up, tossing her hood back. There was something strange in her gauzy blue eyes. Something like silver ringing around her pupils. Eren felt his heart drop into his stomach in utter relief, and he wondered if this was what Armin and Mikasa had felt like when they had thought he had died.

Kenny actually jumped in surprise at the suddenly very much alive girl. He moved his gun to her face, but she'd already flung her hands out, stretching them as she rose to her feet. Kenny Ackerman froze in his place. His eyes widened in shock. In fear.

In pain.

Eren sat up, her blood still half-blinding him. Her fingertips were silver. Her eyes were silver too. Everything was suddenly silver light, like the moon had broken out in the daytime and eclipsed all other light, even the sun, and spilt its shine all across the globe from just one little wave of a little girl's tiny finger.

"I can find Armin now," Historia said in a bright, giddy voice. Her eyes were glowing a serene sort of silver. They were heavily lidded, and suddenly very aware. She glowered at him. "If you were anyone else, I'd probably let you live. But you're not. You're scum."

Eren watched in awe as the silver in the air expanded, illuminating the morning like a beacon bursting in the night, and it was suddenly so cold that Eren could feel blood freezing upon his cheeks, crystallizing against his nose and mouth, and the tears in his eyes iced up at the corners. He was shivering in the silvery miasma, ice and snow and fear pressing upon him as Historia raised both hands very high, and the light grew so bright it burned his eyes. Then she flicked her wrists, and Kenny Ackerman gave a short, visceral shriek of agony as the light blew apart in a hundred thousand fractals of energy, and then sucked itself all back together, condensing in a roaring icy sphere that collided with Historia's chest, sending her flying onto her back.

Kenny Ackerman's body fell, crumpling at the tiny girl's feet like a marionette whose strings had been sliced.

Eren scrambled to her side, helping her upright as she shuddered, clutching her chest and coughing a little. Her eyes darted up to Eren's face, and he saw the silver in them leaking across her bloody cheeks, dissipating very nearly upon contact. Mikasa and Connie came rushing to them, though Connie reached them first, and this time after he kicked Kenny Ackerman's gun away, he actually checked to make sure the man was down. Mikasa fell to her knees beside Eren, pressing her hand into his back, and all he could do was tell her he was fine before Historia collapsed to her hands and knees and vomited.

"He's dead," Connie whispered.

Eren placed his hand against Historia's back as she retched, her body trembling, and her eyes wild with terror and confusion and despair. He could hear her sobbing between intakes of breaths and upheavals.

"Get his phone," Eren told Connie. "It's literally the only thing that's got worth on that piece of trash."

He rubbed slow circles against Historia's back as she continued to puke, her body wracking and quaking, and she was soon sobbing unlike she'd ever sobbed, or like anyone had ever sobbed before, her voice carrying across the shrill wind and breaking like huge, echoing thunderclaps, and he wondered if she wasn't some kind of god in human skin, forced to be human and have human feelings. Like grief. And despair. And fear.

_She's so scared_, Eren thought, pulling back her hood. It had fallen over her face again. _She shouldn't be scared. She's got nothing to be afraid of anymore_.

"Don't cry, Historia," Eren said, leaning a little into Mikasa's one-armed embrace. He was falling asleep. He hadn't taken his medication that morning. That explained a lot. "You just saved us. Hey. Look."

When she did, her eyes were back to that same old dull blue, no silver, no film of death, just a strange distance that was a result of her pretending to be something she clearly was not. Through all the blood, and all the tears, Eren thought he could definitely see her for what she really was. Human. Just like the rest of them.

He licked his thumb, and rubbed it against her forehead. It smeared the blood around minutely. She stared at him, looking bewildered, and she hiccupped.

"You've got a little somethin' on your face," he offered.

She blinked rapidly.

And then, tearfully, she began to laugh.

* * *

_Today I actually managed to finish the story (there's thirty six chapters), which is good because I start school tomorrow and I have two gift fics to write and very little time to write them. So cheers to that._

_None of you can understand the immense satisfaction I felt upon killing Kenny Ackerman. Fuck that dude._

_Ah, fun fact, Levi's entire motif (in canon!) was based on Rorschach from Watchmen. That's why I brought it up. Isayama must be a comic book nerd. Also Watchmen is DC so if you're ever like, "ooh, levi's batman-y!" no he's not he's literally based on Rorschach and the only thing he has in common with bruce wayne is the fact that he's responsible for WAY too many kids who he mistreats because of his emotional constipation._

_i'd love to see some fanart of levi as batman and new squad levi as robins tbh_


	29. unwilling, willing

**nolens volens**

**salem, massachusetts**

_a.d. iii non. nov., 2766 a.u.c._

A blizzard.

It had made sense when she had first initiated it. Now she just felt like a fool for letting her emotions get the better of her. Repeatedly. In a very quick succession of what could be the greatest fuck ups of her very short life.

She still wasn't sure what had happened. She didn't know who to blame. Herself? Had she truly been so irrationally blind to her own power? Or was she being tricked yet again?

It had all gone so smoothly until he started freezing.

Annie hadn't known what exactly to feel when she'd kissed Armin. Was there supposed to be feeling? Usually she wasn't quite attached to her own emotions, her heart constantly numb and constantly keeping her from comprehending her own mistakes. But even so, there had always been some sort of flicker of warmth there. When she was with the team… feeling some semblance of normality, of care and foreign contentedness, she'd always felt warm and safe and sad beyond belief. Because it wasn't real. Because none of it was real. She was just a liar, and they were just doomed.

But Armin's lips had been so soft, and his skin so abnormally warm, overheated it seemed by his sickness, and his fleshy lips had burned her. Trust was a two-way street, that was for sure. And she had no choice but to trust him. What were her other options? It was either Armin or captivity.

She wouldn't be trapped like a rabbit in a snare. She was not going through this horror again.

_I'm such a fool,_ she thought, collapsing in a snowbank as the drifts grew thicker and thicker, layering the roads with blankets of white. All schools had been called off. Annie felt like those children should be kissing the snow that she walked upon. _I'm a foolish little girl, and I never learn, not even when it matters most_.

Wind and ice clung to her skin and her hair and her clothes, and she likely looked like some kind of snow witch, with all the hoarfrost and icicle that seemed to grow from her very skin. It, in fact, did. Every little burst of snowflakes was a result of something she'd thrown up, quite literally, which was terrifying and a little disgusting. She wished she could freeze herself like she'd frozen Armin.

She should've known from the moment it started. She should've quit while she was ahead, and never let it go so far.

The moment she'd pulled back to see frost caking his pale lips, she knew she'd royally fucked up. But it had only gotten worse. Her power had grown on its own. And suddenly he was being devoured by ice, and shaking so badly that she thought he might snap his neck. She hadn't even realized her own terrible distress until she'd felt a gentle hand on her back, rubbing small circles between her shoulder blades.

"Oh, Annie," Marco had sighed, watching Armin convulse and freeze in a duel presentation of grotesque nature. "Look what you've done now."

She'd been sobbing, she'd realized upon coming to her senses, and clawing at Armin's feet with her blackened fingers, attempted to break apart the ice she'd created but only blasting more icicles into spiking, crystallized existence, watching them as they grew and twisted and writhed around his skinny body. Her power was utterly consuming him, and he was powerless to stop it. He was dying. He was seized by his malady, and there was nothing she could do to stop it, or herself, or any of this horror.

"No," Annie had sobbed, "no, no, _no_!"

"Stand up," Marco whispered. "You're only worsening the damage done."

Annie had been so distraught, she could barely think, barely function. This wasn't fair. She'd liked Armin. She really, really liked Armin, she liked that he understood her, and she liked that he was clever and concerned, and she liked that exhilarating thought that maybe he could figure everything out just by being his odd little self, but now that dream was shattered, and she was watching him become a casualty of her own making.

"I don't—" Annie'd been breathless, her tears crystallizing upon her cheeks. "I don't understand!"

"What?" He'd sounded so confused, and he laughed at her. The sound was familiar and sweet, and she wanted him out of her head, she wanted all these stupid boys and their stupid, sweet little lies out of her head. "Oh, c'mon. Did you really think kissing him was a good idea? You can barely touch _me_ without making my fingers numb."

"I thought it'd be different," she gasped, "I thought—!"

"You little fool…" Marco had murmured, his voice light and affectionate as he rested his hand on her head. She was still clawing at Armin's feet, sobs bubbling up in her chest. "A lovely fool, granted, but a fool nonetheless. Look at him. Look what you've done. What on earth were you even _thinking_?"

Every tear was a line of ice stuck against her cheek. She'd never felt so cold in her entire life, and there was ice in her bloodstream. Winter was her beating heart, and snow was packed around her frigid insides, glittery porcelain skin to match her cold, hard heart.

"Stop it!" she'd screamed, watching her black fingers produce a myriad of broken, busted ice that danced around the tree, laughing in sweet crackling sounds at her madness, her sadness, and her grave stupidity. "Help me undo it!" She was breaking apart, melting and cracking and every little thing that she'd held inside her, bottled up beneath the frigid exterior was spilling through, and it was so warm and sickening that she thought she might puke. "I can't, I can't melt it, you have to do something!"

Marco stood smiling at her side, watching as her ice smoothed delicately over Armin's sweet, astonished face. It solidified nicely.

"Annie," he said gently, "come on, now, chin up. Let me take care of it. You trust me, don't you? I mean…" Marco looked up, his soft voice drifting over the lashing of the wind. "After all, if anyone can help him, it's me."

"Liar," she spat.

He glanced at her as she lurched to her feet. She scrubbed at her face with her icy fingers, scratching away at the frozen tears, and she took deep, harsh breath as the air became cold and knifed at her lungs with every short intake.

"You—" she snarled, stumbling away from him, her sneakers crushing leaves and sending swirls of frost across the dead yellow grass. "You _liar_!"

"Oh, aren't you being dramatic?" Marco rolled his eyes. "If I'm a liar, Annie, what does that make you?"

She wanted to scream. She wanted to scream, and throw herself to the ground and cry and scream and thrash until the world broke apart. She hated this.

"Stop it!" she snarled. "I can't— I can't do this anymore. I can't keep lying for you!"

"You do realize," he said, his eyes warm and bright against the shuddering, ice clustered dawn, "that you can't get away from this, don't you?" Everything was ice and snow now. Everything was dust and frost.

"I will," she told him, staring into his warm face and his warm eyes and his warm, warm smile, and she decided that she could definitely despise him. "I'm through with all of this. If you don't help me free Armin, then I'll— I'll never speak to you again."

"That's kind of childish," he sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "Not to mention rude."

"Fuck you," she snapped.

"Wow." Marco looked at her. Really looked, and his shoulders slumped a little as he took a step forward. Instinctively she stumbled back, and icicles sprouted up from the dirt where her heels collided with the earth. "You're really angry. I'm sorry, Annie. I didn't realize you cared about him that much."

She wanted to sob. She could feel one bubbling in her chest, and she stared at him incredulously, shaking her head over and over, little bursts of ice and snow dragging into the air from the tips of her fingers. His expression softened considerably, and she shook her head again, and again, and again, unable to believe him and his apology, and yet she found herself breaking apart at the very seams as his strong arms found their way around her tiny shoulders, and she was pressed up against his chest, her face buried in the buttons of his shirt.

"You'll forgive me, won't you?" he murmured into her hair. "I never think before I do things. I thought making him come to you would fix it all."

"You made it _worse_," she choked against his chest, sinking into his embrace as fresh tears sprung into her eyes. "You kept feeding him lies! You made him have a— a seizure, or something! What did you even show him?"

"Mm…" He rested his chin against the top of her head, and for a few sweet moments it seemed normal again, like everything was back the way it was supposed to be, and she could just forget about Armin and the others, forget and be happy, be happy, be something that wasn't inexplicably terrified. "I made him see Ilse instead of me. I thought it'd work, but his mind is a lot stronger than I anticipated. And the seizure… well, unfortunately, I've been gambling on his life a little too long. I don't think he'll live much longer."

Annie was breathless. _He won't live much longer_, she thought, peeking through Marco's arms to look at the face of the boy beneath the ice. He looked serene, somehow, and she wanted nothing more than to shatter the frozen mass and make him breathe some real air. _This is too cruel. Life's too cruel_.

"What's going to happen to him?" Annie whispered.

He rubbed her back reassuringly, as though that could make the pain of what he'd done go away. She was numb to so much in this world. Why not him too? What was this, her weakness for sweet smiles and open, friendly minds?

Sweet boys always ended up being the cruelest, it seemed.

"Well," Marco chirped, "thanks to you? I think he'll live a little longer. So don't cry over it, doll. Chin up!" She didn't look up at him. She _hated_ it when he called her doll. "Or not. Okay. Look, I'm really sorry this happened."

"No you're not," she muttered into his chest.

"Hey, I want Armin to live as much as you do," he said softly, taking her face in his hands and tilting it up so she could look him in the eyes. "See? No lies this time. I'm me, see?"

"I can't even tell the difference anymore," she hissed, shoving him away. He looked genuinely hurt, and he stared at her confusedly. "What's real, Marco? This face? Or Ilse?"

And he'd stared at her.

And he'd smiled.

"Don't you trust me, Annie?" he asked innocently.

"No," she said, taking another step backwards, sickened as icicles spun around her, curling against the harsh morning light and glittering in her wake. "No, I don't think I trust you at all."

"Now who's the liar," he cooed.

"Get out of my head!" she'd snapped, her dark fingers flying beneath her hair, tearing at her scalp as she squeezed her eyes shut. "Get out of here! Go!"

"I thought you wanted me to help you get Armin out of this terrible, terrible mess you've made."

"You did this," she gasped, tears flooding her cheeks and gathering in clumps of snow around her eyelids. It was obscuring her vision, turning everything bright white. "Not me!"

"Look around," he said, waving his arms at all the ice bursting from the ground, at the boy incased in a frozen prison, at the snow rising from her tear ducts. "This was all you. Every little bit of it. All I did was lead him here."

"And look how well that turned out!"

"It's swell, I think," he said earnestly, glancing at Armin's frozen body. "I mean, I thought you wanted him to live. Well, now we have more time to help him."

"You can't just keep him frozen…"

"Is that a challenge?" He quirked an eyebrow, and clasped his hands together excitedly. "Oh, boy. You really haven't learned a thing."

"Marco," she said, lowering her hands to her sides as she heaved. "I'm done. I'm done with you. I'm done playing pretend!"

"You were always free to go and come at your leisure," Marco said, watching her with an odd, vaguely pained expression. "I can't stop you from leaving. You've always been free to leave, Annie, you just always come back. Which is why I'll excuse this insubordination."

"This is the last time you'll ever see me," she declared.

"Oh, I'm sure." He grinned at that, and wandered over to Armin's frozen encasement, resting his fingers against the jagged, glassy surface. He stared into the boy's face, and turned his bright, salient brown eyes to her. Warmth was him. He was warmth. It was as though he'd captured the sun in his eyes, and he exuded its energy without so much as lifting a finger. "Oh, Annie. They hated you when you killed me. What are they going to think of you when they find out what you did to their precious mind reader?"

Her heart had battered against her chest, wild and frenzied and faltering at the thought. It hadn't occurred to her. All she wanted was out, but there was no way out, not when Armin was a boy on ice, not when she'd already fucked up enough that they'd hunt her down and skewer her. _Eren will hate me for this_, she thought, certain and terrified. _Mikasa might kill me for this_.

"Ah, see." Marco cocked his head as he smiled. "You're lucky I made them pity you. Elsewise you'd be a dead girl walking, I'm certain."

"They only hated me," Annie whispered bitterly, "because they thought I killed you."

"Well, technically you did," he said brightly. "Marco Bodt needed to die. You played a big part in that. And I'm really thankful!"

"Oh, eat shit," she snapped at him.

"Ha ha!" He pulled his hand from Armin's crystalline prison, and he clapped his hands together. "Gosh, you're always a treat. I'll really miss our little talks, you know." He sighed loftily, rocking back on his heels. "I sure hope no one kills you. I'd be pretty pissed."

"Go to hell," she said hoarsely. "That's where you belong."

"Yes, yes," Marco sighed, glancing around him a little irritably. "Right, I know. Son of Satan right here. Anyways, call me if you need me. Key's under the mat. That sort of thing. Oh, and try not to get killed."

She couldn't take it anymore. She screamed.

"I hate you!" she snarled. "I hate you, I hate you, I _hate_ you!"

He'd smiled then, but grimly. "Doll," he said softly, "get in line."

He was the reason Armin was frozen.

He was the reason her life was in a gutter, and she was lying in a bank of snow, allowing herself to be buried in her own sickness because she was too tired and weak to care.

Part of her had wanted to stay, to try and protect Armin from whatever Marco had in store for him, but she knew she had no chance. Marco wanted Armin. That was so clear to her. It was so apparent that she did not matter anymore, that her disappearance meant very little in the grand scheme. Had he been pushing her away when he'd broke her arm, stabbed her, disemboweled her just to prove his stupid, selfish point to Jean?

Annie couldn't take it anymore. Her life was one of fabrications and lies, and she'd never had the chance to be real, or part through what was real and what was a farce.

She wondered how Reiner and Bertholdt were fairing. They'd never had the same disadvantage as her, since she was where Marco had always liked to focus his attention. Of course, she'd never felt that it was a bad thing until very, very recently. She'd always been so happy to please him, so excited when he doted on her, because it had always felt normal and nice, like she truly had someone in the world who cared about her.

When he'd been torturing her, Marco had explained to Jean that Annie would never leave him because she loved him.

That was true enough. It was hard not to love someone who gave you nothing but warmth and kindness for the majority of your life. She couldn't recall the faces of her parents any longer. Marco's face was the only face that was preserved in her memory, and she had no doubt that he was responsible for that directly.

She saw now how he'd been manipulating her. She'd always known, at least a little bit, that she was nothing but a tool. He'd never made that apparent, though. He'd always been kind, always tried to make her feel like she belonged somewhere, at least.

She'd wandered off a few times. She always came back.

It was just the way with her. She wasn't good at standing still, and Marco had always been so accepting of that.

"Welcome home!" he'd gasped upon one of her more recent returnings. He'd run up to meet her, enveloping her in one of his warm, soul crushing hugs. "Are you okay? Have you been eating? I'll have someone bring something up to your room, while you shower, okay?"

Tears were burning inside her eyes, and they were freezing before they could make it out. He made it so hard to hate him.

He was too nice. Too charismatic. Too funny, and smart, and caring.

He knew exactly how to gain unwavering loyalty. And that, she'd realized, was exactly why they were all in this mess in the first place.

She was such a fool.

When he'd asked her to go find Eren, she hadn't known what to think.

"Why Eren?" she'd asked. "Why now?"

Bertholdt and Reiner ran off a lot too. They always went their separate ways, but sometimes Annie felt like they were her only friends. They understood. They got it. In this world, they might as well not exist at all.

"I'm getting really worried about the other patients," Marco had admitted. He disappeared a lot too without warning. Annie had put together, of course, that he was playing a game of lies far more malicious than her own. She'd been lying because she hadn't wanted any of the others to remember their own mortality, in case of the worst. Marco lied because he was curious.

"Why?" Annie recalled her irritation. Perhaps it was jealousy. "You're the one who let them all go."

"Yes, true." He'd smiled at her wanly. "But the procedures were all experimental. For all I know, all that work could be for nothing. What if an illness comes back? I need to be there for them."

And so she'd sought out Eren upon Marco's request.

She hadn't expected to find Armin there as well.

_He'll mess everything up_, she'd thought upon fleeing. _He'll read my mind and remember how sick he was. And then Marco will have to wipe their memories again, and he'll be angry because I fucked up_.

She was fortunate that she had grown up with a telepath. She'd built a very good defense against them. Marco could hardly push through her mental wall, and when they had first met again, it had actually been a strain on Armin to just be _near_ her. It had made her feel safe, if not for just a little while. She hated the sensation of people roaming around inside her head.

But she had underestimated him. It seemed to be the norm with Armin. Everyone expected him to just lie down and take it all. But he refused. She admired that, of course, though it was undeniably frustrating.

"That robot," Armin had told her after the fight in Chicago, "had your powers."

True enough. The robots had been modeled after herself, Reiner, and Ymir. For irony, she had to guess. Armin was the only one clever enough to catch it. She'd been rather irritated when he approached her. What did it matter if the robot was like her or not? She'd scrapped it anyway. It was gone. It had served its purpose, and now it was nothing but a scrap of metal.

She knew that Marco had been playing with everyone's heads that day.

"It looked like it was alive," Armin had said.

She'd bit back a snide remark about how easily he was fooled.

No, the robots had never been alive. But Marco sure as hell made them a spectacle.

She'd seen it herself while fighting the one that had looked like her. Marco had bent its image in order to look uncannily as she did, from its glassy eyes to its frozen fingers. She'd watched it, studied it, felt its vivacity in her heart, seen its sentience with her own two eyes, and she could not for the life of her understand why he wanted to make such a pointless illusion.

When she'd asked, he'd told her quite candidly.

"I thought it'd be fun," he said innocently. "Mysterious, and stuff. Also, it distracted most of you long enough for the robots to do their scans. That ugly, eerie feeling you got in the pit of your stomach when you stared into that robot's eyes? That was real. That wasn't me. That was the machinery staring through you, and analyzing every molecule inside you."

He'd been rather excited about that.

That had been after _The Brigade_ mission. She'd already been growing wary of Marco's influence, because she'd been far enough away from him for a long enough time that she was able to think through what he was doing, and see that he wasn't making any logical sense. What was the harm in just telling them that they'd been sick? She understood that it was all a question of morals, but she couldn't help but think the hindered communication would just cause more problems in the long run.

She was right.

Armin was catching on quickly, and Annie wanted to hate him so badly that it made her chest ache. She was so very wary of mind readers. They got under your skin, and made you love them, and want to do everything in your power to please them, but the harsh reality of it was that nothing _could_ please them.

She'd expected Armin to be just the same. But he had no want for her mind, not truly, and she could taste that in their mental contact. All he wanted, she realized, was to be normal.

They weren't really so different, it seemed.

That was why she'd decided to tell him about what was really going on. The illnesses, the robots, and most importantly, Marco.

She'd hoped her mental wall would be sufficient enough to keep him in the dark about it, but she figured out very quickly that it wasn't. She was trapped. How could she possibly tell Armin anything with Marco's ear turned to her at all times? Not a whisper, not a breath, not even a flutter of a thought could be kept from him.

When she'd volunteered to stand outside with Marco, she'd been terrified. She kept her terror to herself, kept it locked up within her cold heart, kept it hidden, kept it in chains, but everything inside her was about to shatter from that fear, because she knew he was not happy with her, and that she was going to regret ever trusting Armin.

They'd been outside for about a minute in silence before Marco had grabbed her hand and pulled her away.

"I've been thinking," he'd said as they'd exited _The Brigade_ headquarters. "I've gotten too involved."

"What?" Annie had asked. It had been a long time since they'd been alone, and she recalled feeling hollow as he'd pulled her into an alley. Part of her had wanted to remind him that they were supposed to be guarding the others. But she knew Marco didn't care. "What do you mean?"

"I don't think my lie is going to hold much longer," he'd admitted, turning his head up toward the sky. "Which makes me sad. I loved this."

"Your lie can last forever," she said, bitter and furious. "What the hell are you talking about? If something's threatening you, you make it go away. That's just how you are."

"Not this time," he'd sighed, resting his back against the alley wall. "Unfortunately. Sometimes I forget how easy it is for others to build up immunities to telepathy. My illusions won't work. They need to die, and quickly."

"What does that mean?" Annie had asked with a sharp look. Marco had glanced at her with his warm eyes alight in the darkness. _No_, she'd thought, her heart crumbling into dust, _no, please, don't make me do it_.

"I'm sorry, Annie," he said softly, putting his hand on her head and ruffling her hair. "You know I wouldn't unless it was absolutely necessary."

"They'll hate me," she breathed.

He'd quirked an eyebrow, smirking at her with a light amount of amusement in his warm expression. "You actually care?" he teased. "That's actually kinda surprising. I guess this really was a good experience for you!"

"Shut up," she mumbled, rubbing her face tiredly. "I don't want to do this. Why does it have to be me?"

"Who else could?" he'd asked her, blinking with his bright, warm, innocent eyes, and she peeked at him through her fingers and felt her stomach clench in terror. "Marco Bodt has to die, Annie. You have to kill him."

"But I don't want—"

"Do you think I want this either?" he'd asked sharply, his face suddenly contorting in frustration. "I liked this life! I liked being a real, normal boy. But the jig is up, doll. We're not the people we're pretending to be. It's time to let the illusion die."

She'd been close to tears. She hated this. She hated him. She hated the world. _Why can't I just be normal?_ Annie had thought, pulling her glove from her right hand, letting it slip through her fingers as her onyx skin glittered in the darkness. _Why couldn't you erase my memories too?_

"Do I really have to…?" Her fingertips had been centimeters from his cheek, hovering shakily as they gleamed starkly against the warm hue of his skin, and the dark splotches of his freckles. "What if you actually die…?"

He smiled at her, and grasped her wrist. She watched in utter horror as his fingers frosted over, ice clinging to his skin. "Don't you trust me?" he asked her gently.

She hated him.

He dragged her hand through the air, and pressed her icy fingers to his cheek.

In truth, he'd done most of the work. She felt him in her head, a gentle nudge by a gentle voice, and she saw his lips moving, and heard his calm, sweet voice as it urged her to sink her fingernails into his flesh, frost spiraling in slow rhythms over his freckled face, connecting them in careful motions, careful, careful, careful. She was always so careful.

"_**Kill me**_," he whispered, his voice worming its way into her brain, slipping through the cracks of her mental wall, and devouring all sense of agency she had. She felt his voice in her heart, curling around the chains and crags of ice like a snake slithering and curling and constricting with all the force and all the vise, and she watched in confusion and horror as Marco's skin began to fold, and suddenly, as if from a nightmare, icicles burst through his one eye, and bent outwards as they crawled down his face and neck and shoulder, throwing blood and muscle and ice into the air, the sound like stained glass windows shattering under the shrill twittering of a hymn hitting a vibrating pitch.

She'd stumbled back, watching his body crash upon the alley floor, blood and brains and bliss swirling around her, her mind cloudy and crumbling.

If Annie could wipe her mind of all the horror she'd seen and done, she'd do it in a heartbeat.

_My pain makes me stronger_, she tried to convince herself. _I will not crumble. I will not fall_.

She'd fled, hopeless and terrified, but in the end it didn't matter. There was no safe place to run from mind readers. She would never be free of them. She could never escape.

"See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" Marco had laughed when he'd found her again, throwing one arm around her shoulder. She'd slept in a park that night, cramming her body in a little wooden castle, carving a plea amongst the other little sharpie-scrawled graffiti. _Help me,_ she wrote, _save me. I don't want to lie anymore_.

"They all hate me," she'd said dully, staring ahead with dead eyes. She wondered if he'd steal everything that was inside her. He'd already taken her thoughts, her mind, and any emotion that managed to burgeon within her. What else could he possibly want? "They'll probably want revenge. You've made a bigger mess, Marco. I had no motive to kill you."

"Don't fret, doll," he told her, patting her head as he smiled brightly. "I can handle it from here. Why don't we go home now? I have a few errands to run, but I can do those after you're safe in your bed."

_Safe in confinement_, she ached to correct him.

She should have told Armin while she had a chance.

She was so good at following orders.

_I wonder_, she thought now, lying in a bed of snow, _if I ever had any sort of choice to begin with._

Had she done these things out of her own free will? Or had it been Marco influencing her every move, every thought, every little breath?

The reason she'd been so scared of Armin in the first place was because she knew.

Mind readers were the most dangerous kinds of people.

_They trick you into loving them_, she thought furiously, _and manipulate you until you've broken apart_.

Even Armin had tricked her his fair share. Even Armin had made her want to love him, for no reason in particular, and the worst part was that it was no fault of his own. She was weak. She was a weak little girl. And she truly never learned.

She couldn't pretend to understand Marco, or Armin, or even herself. She couldn't pretend to be anything any longer. She wasn't sure who she was, if she had ever been anything more than the lies Marco had laid upon her shoulders.

"Why did I have to break Levi's wings?" she'd asked Marco, rubbing her recently healed eye. He'd been sitting placidly beside her on their plane from Rome back to America. "They weren't even close to finding Dr. Jaeger. It seemed pointless."

"I wanted to slow them down," Marco said. "They're getting too nosy. It's probably best if they shift their focus from Grisha, and onto something actually important. Like Armin."

"What about Armin?" Annie had asked warily.

"Well, he's in all certainty ill again," Marco had mused, resting his cheek against his fist. "Brain tumors are funny things. I'd really love to see how he ticks up close. Did he seem stable to you when you lived with him?"

"Um…" Stable? Well, he hadn't seemed like he was dying, if that was what Marco had meant. "I guess, yeah. He had headaches a lot."

"Oh, that's natural." Marco waved offhandedly. "I always got headaches, way back when I started learning to control my power. That's nothing unusual. But I'm wondering what a tumor would do to the brain of a boy with incredible mental abilities." He'd glanced at her, and she could see the excitement gleaming in his warm brown eyes. She felt sickened by it. "Will he become more powerful as a result? Or will he simply succumb to the atrophy?"

"I don't want to know," she said firmly.

"Fine," he snorted, "I won't tell you anything about it."

She'd looked at him, and it seemed in that moment that she had made a very grave mistake.

True to his word, he'd told her nothing about Armin's condition. In fact, he kept her out of the loop for most things. So when Marco led Jean to Annie, tricking Jean's mind into seeing a dog when it was really nothing but Marco, she'd been astonished.

And, once again, terrified.

Marco had been trying to prove some kind of point to Jean, but Annie didn't care at all. She was furious that she was being used as a pawn, or a tool, and she decided that if Marco didn't want Jean to be a killer, then she'd make him be a killer. It wasn't like she'd die anyway.

And of course, Marco had taken things into his own hands.

_So this is what betrayal feels like_, she'd thought, patting at the blood staining the front of her sweatshirt. _A nice change to be on the receiving end_.

She'd imagined being tortured would be a lot different.

She felt like she should have been expecting this.

Running away from Marco was a lot easier upon the revelation that she was irrevocably terrified of him.

She kept running, and running, and running, but it was so clear that she could never escape them. Armin had found her simply by thinking about her. She was doomed to dance around these illusionists until her feet blistered to the bone.

Annie had fled Marco and abandoned Armin, too scared and too sick and too shattered to even care. She'd run until her legs throbbed, she'd run until tears leaked from her eyes and plastered onto her cheeks, strands of ice glistening madly against the flushed skin. She'd run until she fell onto her knees, the air around her thinning out, and she couldn't breathe, and she couldn't think, and her heart was racing, and she puked.

Instead of vomit or bile, she puked snow.

It was unlike any pain she'd ever felt. It was her entire body being torn away from the inside, frozen blood and frozen bones, and retched up flurries, her skin sloughing off and regenerating in layers and layers of ice, and it felt as though she was going to explode, because suddenly the entire world was white, and she was expelling all sense of feeling, all her terror and all her pain, and it was turning the earth into a toiling storm of snow and ice and her disbelieving, pain filled laughter became the steady wail of the wind.

_Did I do this…?_ she thought numbly, half buried in her own sickness.

It was so funny.

She didn't feel a thing.

She must've been lying there for a while. The snow was blanketing over her now, and she could hardly breath as she sunk deeper and deeper into obscurity. What would happen to Armin? What would happen to her? They were all doomed, it seemed. Reiner had been right all along.

"We are a god's forgotten children," he'd once told her, "and we are his wasted miracles."

She'd stood up and left him to stew in his own self-loathing. She had no use for his existential crisis. They were alive. Wasn't that what mattered?

But she didn't _feel_ alive. Perhaps all her time with Marco had drained her of all sense of emotion. It was an empty life. A desperate one. She wasn't even sad with her situation. Just… terrified… so… so… terrified…

Annie had a theory that Reiner had once asked Marco to erase his memory. But she couldn't be certain.

Thinking about it now made her feel sick.

_Weak_, she thought bitterly, snow digging into her skin, becoming her. _He's just weak. He can't live with his pain_.

She wanted to scream.

Or sob.

Or puke.

She envied him so badly it hurt to breathe.

God, and she'd thought she was numb to it all.

She was just as weak as he was, if not more.

_Marco ruined us with his lies_, she thought. _We're nothing now. Reiner was right, we're nothing in the eyes of gods_.

She found herself being grappled at, hand prying her from her icy bed and tearing her from the snow. She heard shouting amidst her wailing winds, and she felt hot fingers brushing against her cheeks. She pried her eyes open, and saw nothing but white. Great. Why were people touching her?

"Stop," she mumbled hoarsely. She squinted through the haze of white and the snarl of wind, and she shoved at the person holding her. "Let go of me!"

"Holy shit, she's alive!"

"Nice, Marlowe. Real nice."

"Holy shit," Marlowe gasped, his voice familiar and distressed. He set her down very gently on a gurney. "It's _Annie_!"

Annie squinted at him through the frost the clung to her eyelashes. He was wearing a very heavy winter coat. She wouldn't have recognized him amidst the blinding white and the bundle of his coat, if not for his name being spoken.

"Yeah," she said in a dull, throaty voice. "No shit."

"How long were you lying in there?" Marlowe asked, tearing his coat off and throwing it over her shoulders.

"No—" she choked, her eyes flashing wide as she tried to push the coat away. "No, that's not necessary—"

"You're lucky to be alive!" he cried over the snarl of wind. She stared at him, taken aback by his concern. She stayed silent as he bundled his heavy coat around her, dusting the snow from her hair and frowning. Well, she couldn't really explain her resistance to cold anyway.

_What am I supposed to do now_, she thought numbly.

She wondered if the blizzard would stop if she started feeling again.

Marlowe put his hand on her face, and she jerked away from him, nearly toppling right off the gurney. She was breathing rather fast, her heart racing, and she curled into the jacket he had given her and squeezed her eyes shut. Was this what it was like to have a panic attack? Was she having a panic attack? Was she going to go half mad like Bertholdt and Reiner?

She remembered once Bertholdt had broken down before her. She remembered him crumpling like tissue paper, and tearing himself apart.

"Please," he sobbed, fingers drawing down his face, hands curling around his ears, lips trembling so very pitifully. Annie had stood in her silent vigil. Reiner had run to get Marco. They'd only been children then. They were only children. "Please, oh please, oh god, oh _god_—" He'd dropped to his knees, his eyes wide and wild. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry— I didn't— I couldn't— please, stop, I didn't, I didn't mean—"

She'd wanted to hug him. She'd wanted to tell him that it would be okay, that it wasn't real, that it was all in his head, and that it was just fine, just fine, you're fine, please stop crying, _you're making me cry_. Instead, she'd stood and watched him fall apart, his sobs rattling the air like little fists at a cage.

Instead, she'd run away.

She was so good at doing that.

Marlowe looked utterly remorseful, and he pulled his hands as far away from her as possible. She closed her eyes, imagining Bertholdt's face when he smiled, imagining Reiner when he joked, imagined Eren when he was excited, imagined Armin laughing, imagined Christa braiding Mikasa's hair, imagined even Ymir, lazily drawling away at how stupid the world was, even Jean, who'd hated her so badly, but wanted to save her in spite of everything. None of it was making her heart rate slower. It was only worsening her shallow breaths.

"Hitch," Marlowe said urgently, "calm her down, will you?"

"And you expect me to do that how…?" The woman who had spoken was wearing a very nice beige coat, her hood up and a lime green scarf bundled up to her nose. She had pale, fluffy hair that poked out from under the fur lining of her hood. "Oh, let me guess. Womanly touch?" She gave a shrill little laugh. "Fuck yourself, buddy. I came here for a story, not a nanny service."

"I'm sorry, Annie," Marlowe said to her gently, holding his hands up to show her where exactly they were. She was almost touched by the gesture. "This is my friend Hitch. She'd been helping me get people off the streets." He sighed, shooting a glare at the woman, who struck Annie as rather self-absorbed and careless. "Unfortunately she's the biggest bitch in the country."

"Oh my gosh, you really mean it?" Hitch feigned awe, and then she pinched out Marlowe's cheek. "I'm the only bitch you've got, pal."

"Um, can I go?" Annie asked weakly.

Marlowe glanced at her worriedly. She appreciated the concern, but they hardly even knew each other. They'd met when Annie had stumbled into the soup kitchen a few nights ago, looking for a place to crash. She didn't expect anyone to really care, because she wasn't an unusual case, she was just like any other homeless kid roaming around.

"Annie," Marlowe said, "why don't you come back? There are lots of people seeking shelter right now, you might as well."

"No thanks," she said. She saw Hitch's eyebrows rise.

"Come on. You can't stay out here in this weather—"

"I probably could," she said. "Can I go now?"

Marlowe looked a little distraught, and he grimaced, whirling around to Hitch. "You talk to her!" He shoved Hitch forward, much to the woman's dismay, and she glanced at Annie uncertainly.

"Oh boy," Hitch whistled, "you are an absolute wreck. Okay, hon." Hitch hopped onto the gurney beside Annie, much to her dismay. "You're cute, you know that? You've got a kind of rugged Icelandic look about you. Totes adorable, bet you get a lot of boys."

"No," Annie said. The wind was howling pretty loudly. What the hell was this lady going on about with boys? Annie didn't give a shit about boys.

Hitch squinted at Annie's face. She was a little impish, her features angular and pinched, and she reminded Annie of sharp edges that needed to be padded over so little children didn't crack their heads open.

"Hey," Hitch chirped, "Marlowe, why don't I take her off your hands?"

"What?" Marlowe asked flatly.

Annie glanced at this woman, slight and smiley and shrill, and she wondered if she'd be able to take an hour with her, let alone a day.

But actually… going with this woman would probably make it harder to be found, wouldn't it?

Annie was a fifteen year old girl, alone in a blizzard, and she'd fucked up so badly that she was pretty sure she'd signed her own death certificate. And it'd be a lot easier to run away from this one woman then, say, an entire building of sheltered homeless. She had to give it some consideration, but in all honesty, she had nowhere to go. I'm going to regret this, she thought, eying Hitch warily.

"Okay," she said, hopping off the gurney. "Let's go."

"Whoo!" Hitch shoved Marlowe away, jumping over a mound of snow as her boots cracked against the fresh powder. "Let this be a lesson, Marlowe! I will always be your superior in every way!"

"You're the worst type of person, Hitch," Marlowe said quietly.

"And loving every minute of it," she crowed over the roaring wind. Annie peeled off the coat she'd been given, and she offered it back to Marlowe. He stared at her, snowflakes gathering in his hair, and he shook his head furiously.

"No way," he said, shoving the coat back in her face. "At least let me give you this much. I trust Hitch enough not to kill you in your sleep, but be careful, okay? She's really not that nice."

"You're just jealous because she chose me over you," Hitch sneered. "Come on, Annie, I'm not staying far from here."

Annie followed her quietly, wondering if Marco was lurking somewhere around here. He had a tendency to stalk. She wasn't sure if it was out of curiosity, boredom, or insanity. Perhaps a combination of all three.

But Marco was busy with Armin's frozen body right now. Thankfully Annie was a low priority. For how long, she could not say.

"So like," Hitch said, marching forward through the frigid whip of wind that lashed out at them, "gotta ask, what were you doing passed out in the snow?"

Annie's sneakers sank heavily into the fallen drifts. She was very glad she could not feel this vicious cold, because her sneakers were soaked completely through, and the inside fabric was sticking uncomfortably to her soles. She might've been terrified. She couldn't tell anymore, it was all so cold, and it was all the same. She wasn't sure if her heart was in the right place, or if she even had a heart anymore.

She wanted to tell Armin that she regretted so much, that she wanted so much, but she had nothing, and she was nothing, and she wanted him to know that. She wanted him to understand that she was weak, weaker than him by far, and that she had no sense of right or wrong, just some spark of feelings sometimes when it seemed okay to feel.

She wanted to tell him that she'd never meant to hurt anyone. Especially not him.

_He's dying, and frozen_, she thought. _And he's going to haunt me forever_.

Forever seemed like a long time to be haunted by a silly little boy with hollow eyes and a silver tongue.

"Okay…" Hitch glanced at her, and rolled her shoulders. "So, why were you so jumpy around Marlowe back there? Yeah, he's kinda a lot to chew, but like, damn that boy's got a heart. He'd never actually hurt you."

Annie had a lump in her throat that was difficult to swallow. It hurt to breathe, the air was so thin. She stepped forward, stepped and stepped, her boots crashing upon the ground.

If she told them it was Marco, would any of them believe her? Or would they take her for a liar when she was finally telling the truth, and put her to the axe anyway? Marco always made himself appear as Ilse. And Ilse, Annie knew, was such an intricate fabrication she may as well be a real live girl.

"You're not all that talkative, are you, doll?"

Annie went rigid, all her muscles locking as though the cold had finally gotten to her, and ice had licked up from wet, squishy toes, slipping across her feet and slithering around her ankles, clawing up her calves and clenching her thighs in an iron grip. She stared at Hitch, wondering if she had enough energy to be furious, or if her fury would just be another lie.

"Don't call me that," she said in such a sharp, quiet tone, that her voice tore from her throat in a strange guttural snarl.

Annie was a wolf that had been trapped so many times, it had lost its legs and was forced to crawl.

Little omega wolf was waiting for her old pack to put her out of her misery.

It'd be a mercy. Wouldn't it?

"Jesus, yeah." Hitch threw up her arms, blinking at Annie confusedly. "Sorry. Are you okay?"

Annie couldn't reply. Okay? Well, to start with, her skin didn't sit right on her bones, and she was pretty sure that was because it'd literally torn off not too long ago to release a fucking blizzard. And that was only to start with.

Had Annie ever been okay? It was hard to think. When was the last time she'd been happy?

_Talking to Armin_, she reminded herself. _That had been nice. And then before that, there was Mina_.

"I don't… really know," Annie admitted, watching her sneakers kick up slush. This was her world. All sparkling and pure for only just a few moments before everything gets trampled, and blackened footprints dug into her soul. It was all violent, hissing wind and protruding icicles, and death come knocking early.

Hitch stopped at decent looking hotel, stepping up to the stoop and kicking the snow from her boots by knocking them against a rail. She glanced at Annie, and she waved her forward. "Well," she said, "come on. This is where I'm staying."

Annie followed Hitch obediently, like the good girl she knew she was not, and she sulked along, not really feeling a thing as the warm burst air from the hotel's heater smacked her in the face. She almost missed the wailing winds. At least she'd felt at home outside. Now she felt like a prisoner again.

_Why_, she wondered, _are my prisons always the warm, innocent kind?_

If someone locked her in a hard, cold basement, at least she'd know who to hate.

"Kay, so," Hitch said, letting herself and Annie into the hotel room. It was a little trashed, clothes strewn across the floor, a beer bottle lying on its side beside the bed, an open box of condoms half-tipped over the corner of the nightstand. Annie tried not to let her eyes linger on it. "This is it? You're totes welcome to the couch. Actually, some of my clothes might fit you, so that's good, I guess."

Annie slumped a little, pulling off the coat Marlowe had given her, feeling sweat break out across her back. Heat was disgusting. She wanted to be back in her blizzard, and to be frozen over like Armin.

"Is Marlowe your boyfriend?" Annie asked suddenly, unable to meet Hitch's eye.

She barked a laugh so genuinely amused that Annie found herself flushing at her naivety. "Oh, gosh," she breathed, snatching Marlowe's coat from Annie's hands and tossing it onto her bed. "Sometimes. When I'm in the mood for him. How old are you, anyway?"

Annie felt like lying. Nineteen? Nineteen seemed like a good age to lie about. But she didn't look like she was nineteen. She looked like she was thirteen. And that was on a good day. She didn't want to be treated like a little kid, though. She wasn't a kid, she was… she didn't know. A monster, maybe.

"Seventeen," Annie said, because she knew she couldn't get away with being legal.

"Huh." Hitch kicked off her snowy boots, stripping herself of her coat and scarf, revealing a tight pair of jeans and an oversized purple sweater. "Okay, so tell it to me true. What were you doing out in the snow?"

"I don't know," Annie said truthfully.

"Oh, come on." Hitch cocked her head, and her soft blonde hair curled around her cheeks. "You were half-buried. Freezing to death isn't exactly the way I'd choose to go."

"I wasn't going to freeze to death," Annie said.

"No? Because seemed like you were pretty damn close to it."

_You don't know anything_, she bit back.

"Can I shower?" she said instead.

Hitch quirked an eyebrow, and she smirked. Her lips were a little blue from the cold outside. She pointed to a door on the far wall, and Annie strode over to it, kicking her sneakers off as she went and ripping her hair from its bun. It was wet and scraggly around her ears.

The bathroom was as scummy as any hotel bathroom, she guessed. So, it probably could be a lot worse. The grime was only really in the grout of it tile, and the sink and tub were still white. Annie closed the door behind her, pressing her back to the wood and taking a deep, shaky breath. Her clothes were completely soaked.

She thought about kissing Armin under that tree in that cemetery, and she hated herself for it. It hadn't even meant anything, really, because neither of them wanted it to, and neither of them had any sort of interest in romance or sex, and yet that was what was so attractive about the entire situation. Because they'd been on the same level. They were thinking the same thought, and this time, for once, she knew it was out of her own will.

It was a kiss that probably killed him.

She was so good at fucking things up.

She locked the door, taking great care in peeling the clothes from her back. They were stuck firmly to her skin, clinging helplessly until she was forced to tear them off and kick them away. There was a towel folded on the sink that looked big enough for her to use, and she shivered as she looked at herself in the mirror, half of her skin blackened and gleaming with crystals of ice forming in the very creases of her flesh. Her face was splotchy, and her eyes were bloodshot, and she saw ice in her eyes as she saw ice riddled across her entire body, chunks of flesh missing to reveal solid crystal structures.

It seemed like her skin was growing back, but slowly.

She turned on the showerhead, making the water as hot as possible, and she climbed in. She didn't bother shutting the curtain. The scalding water hit her like a sandstorm, and it brought tears to her eyes. Steam blinding her, tears stung her eyes, and water lashed upon her back with the kind of pressure that made her feel as though her spine would snap.

Annie stood for a moment, her mouth open and her lips trembling against the excruciating pain, and she wondered if it made sense to punish herself, or if she was simply losing her mind. Hot water streamed around her, enveloping her in fire when her entire body was ice, and she hated every moment of it. She sat down on the floor of the tub, liquid flame slicing brands into her pale skin, rivulets of scorching water tracing the protrusions of her spinal column. The beating of the heated water on her icy skin was like being dipped in molten gold.

After a little while, she let the tears go, and sobbed into her knees.

She didn't feel anything, so she didn't know why she was crying. She was growing weaker and weaker, and she was powerless to stop it. The world was melting for her. She was melting with it. She didn't understand. She didn't want any of this.

Through the steam and the pain, she imagined what it would be like to just be a normal girl who could touch things and play sports and have friends without lying through her teeth for someone who considered her disposable. She wished she'd escaped with the rest of them five years ago. Then she might have a clean heart. A clean slate. Maybe then Armin wouldn't be trapped in ice, and she wouldn't be in such a terrible place thinking such terrible things and feeling that there was nothing at all inside her but ice.

She didn't wash her hair, but she scrubbed at her body until her body was raw. Then she dunked her head in the scalding downpour, and let it lash upon her face until she felt sufficiently clean. She felt a hollow place in her chest where a beating heart might've been not so long ago, but she figure it was gone by now. Shattered or melted with the rest of her.

This was terrible.

She turned off the water, trying to get her head straight, but the water had just made everything murkier, and she felt like she was going to puke. _No_, she thought. _No more blizzards, holy shit, please no_.

She sat on the floor of the tub for a little while, letting the burns from the shower heal slowly. She ran her finger over one, brushing over the raised skin, blinking at the tingling spark of pain that rushed through her. She wished someone she knew were here. Someone not Marco, someone like Armin, or Reiner, or Bertholdt, or Eren, or even Mikasa. She'd give anything to see a familiar face.

Sniffling pitifully, she climbed out of the tub, dripping water everywhere as she snatched the towel and flung it around herself, burying her face in the downy fabric. What was she supposed to do now?

_Armin_, she thought into a great void. _I'm so sorry_.

If he had heard her, he did not respond. Perhaps he was already dead.

A knock at the door nearly had her toppling onto the floor. When had she become so frigging jumpy? She needed to calm down.

She wrapped her towel tighter around herself as Hitch called through the door, "Hey, are you alive in there?"

That was probably a matter of perspective.

It wasn't really like her to be so worked up over such trivial things, and she honestly really tried not to get emotional because it was easier to play pretend if her insides didn't feel like they were about to spill out. But she wasn't playing pretend anymore. The jig was up. She was no longer expected to act as the tool she knew she was, and she could go along and spout all sorts of truths without any fear. The only problem was that no one would believe her.

The wolf, or the girl who cried wolf. It didn't matter. She was doomed either way.

Hitch's fist was rapping on the door, and Annie watched the doorframe shake in the steam and the mist, her body quaking and her skin stinging from excess healing. She felt the residual stretch of scorching water branding into her back. She hadn't taken any sort of pleasure in that pain, which was frustrating to her, because she wanted some kind of release from the pressure building inside her. Kissing someone again might do the trick.

_What if I seduce her?_ Annie thought, eying the doorway thoughtfully. _She'd take the bite. She's just that type of person_.

But Annie's mind was on the crystalline structure her single kiss had trapped Armin in. Annie was too unstable for such thoughts. And, also, she wasn't sure if kissing Hitch, or doing anything else with her, would make her feel better. Armin had been a good first kiss, because Armin was odd and awkward and inexperienced. Hitch was a stranger, and a confident one at that.

"I'm gonna get someone to chop down this door!" Hitch warned. "I swear!"

Annie readjusted her towel so it knotted at her breasts and covered her body as best as it possibly could. She'd always tried to cover up out of self-consciousness, feeling that her body was too strange to trust on any level. It was too strange and awkward for her, even with people she'd trusted completely like Reiner, Bertholdt, and Marco. Privacy was not a luxury she got often, so she compensated by burying herself in clothing.

Her life was too complicated for this shit.

She unlocked the door, and before she could pull it open, Hitch burst into the room. Annie stumbled backwards, her heels colliding sharply with the grimy tile, and she regained her balance after a little dizzy spell of cool air rushing to greet her. There were snowflakes dancing inside her eyes.

"What the hell were you doing?" Hitch asked. "Preening?"

"Showering…" Annie was self-conscious again. She found herself clasping her left elbow tightly in her fist, feeling foolish and awkward and far too vulnerable. Her thin legs were wobbling, well toned muscle turning to jelly as she realized her fear of intimacy extended to this woman too. She'd never be able to seduce her. Or, really, anyone. Annie was too terrified.

"Gosh," Hitch said, squinting through the steam. "You're a real mess, aren't you?"

Annie couldn't respond. It was true.

"Well, come on," Hitch said, waving her out of the bathroom. Annie followed hesitantly, every moment passing another blow to her ego. She stood silently, flushing and furious with herself, because showing fear was a huge mistake. "You're really tiny, so I didn't know what exactly would fit you. Your hips are pretty narrow, and my ass is glorious, so most of my jeans and stuff are out. My leggings should fit you, though." Hitch shoved a black bundle at Annie's face, and then tossed a faded blue sweater her way. Annie caught it, watching it wilt between her fingers.

Hitch seemed to notice that.

"Oh my god!" Hitch exclaimed, her eyes flashing in horror. "Shit, you have frostbite!"

Annie glanced at her blackened fingers, and she sighed. "No," she said glumly. "No I do not."

"Hon, your fingers are black as my soul. Oh man, what do we do?" Hitch scratched her head, not looking particularly distressed. "Call a doctor? But who'd take you in this weather…?"

"Hitch," Annie said firmly. "My fingers have been like this for years. It's not frostbite, it's just a skin condition."

Hitch glanced at Annie, pursing her lips indignantly. "For some reason, I just don't believe you," she said.

_Whenever I tell the truth_, Annie thought bitterly, _I'm a liar anyway._

"Believe what you want," Annie snapped. "Just don't expect me to see a doctor."

She marched back into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her with careful ease. She didn't want to make a ruckus, or anything. She stood with her clothes clutched between two shaky hands, and she gritted her teeth. Weak, weak, weak. A weak little girl. A weak little dream.

She let the towel drop, and found, thankfully, that Hitch had wrapped the leggings around a pair of underwear. She got dressed hastily, the fabric clinging to her wet skin, but all in all she felt much better upon slipping into fresh clothing. She gathered her old clothes in the towel, plucking her gloves from the damp mass and slipping them on. She didn't want anymore comments about her supposedly frostbitten fingers.

Annie exited the bathroom again, and stood watching Hitch as the woman sprawled out on her bed, looking bored and exhausted. Annie set her clothes aside, noting a small window with the beige curtains drawn. She peeked out into the blinding whiteness of her sick creation, and she was astonished to find it had stopped.

"You're super jumpy," Hitch said. And, true to form, Annie jumped in alarm, whirling away from the window. "Look, I'm not subtle at all, so I've gotta pry. Did someone assault you?"

"No," Annie said.

"Then why are you so uptight?"

"I'm homeless," she said dully. "I don't trust a lot of people."

"Well, you should definitely trust me," Hitch said brightly.

_Not on your life_, Annie thought darkly.

Hitch began talking to Annie about things that Annie didn't really care about, like celebrities and movies. Annie plucked at the hem of the sweater she'd been given, recalling that Armin liked musicals. She was making things so much worse for herself by focusing all her thoughts on that stupid boy. But she couldn't help it. She was guilty, and he was dying, and she had lost a real friend today.

_Happy birthday to you_, she thought, staring distantly ahead of her, _and many more to come_.

What a terrible joke.

"So where are you from?" Hitch asked.

"All over."

"Why'd you run away?"

Annie glanced at her sharply. "Who said I ran away?"

"You're a homeless kid, I kinda just assumed."

"It's not really your business."

"Fine." She tucked her legs under her, and took a swig from her beer bottle. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

"No."

"Girlfriend?"

"No."

"Anyone special at all?" Hitch was definitely grappling at straws to get Annie to talk. And all she wanted was to get her mind off Armin. This wasn't fair at all.

"Not really," she said.

"Not really is someone, though!"

Annie glowered at Hitch, and she snatched the beer bottle from her fingertips, bringing it to her lips and throwing it back. The taste wasn't exactly nice, and it was a lot like cold piss slithering down her throat, but she did not gag and she did not balk, and she downed the bottle in three long gulps.

"Damn," Hitch whistled. "If you were thirsty, you could've asked."

Annie wanted to tell Hitch that she wanted to die, but she was terrified of dying, and the worst part of all of it was that her body forced her to live no matter what, so she could probably kill herself a dozen times, and she'd still be plastered to this whitish hell on earth.

"If I was interested in a boy," she said thoughtfully, "not in any sexual or romantic sense, just out of curiosity, would that be strange?"

"Like… what?" Hitch looked a little surprised, and Annie found that satisfactory enough. "Companionship?"

"Maybe."

"Well," Hitch sighed, "that's all sorts of messy, especially for a little lady like you who's got lots of trust issues. I don't trust boys at all. I just fuck them."

"Nice."

"Oh, it is." Hitch smirked at her, and Annie felt discomfort gnawing at her cold insides. "But I can tell you're not interested in any of that."

Annie sat on the edge of Hitch's bed, her heart returning piece by piece, and she found herself in the terrible position of knowing exactly what she wanted with no way to attain it. She wanted to scream, and sob, and let the entire world freeze. But there was truly nothing she could do.

"I want to go home," Annie said. Her voice was lost. Her heart was lost. She was lost, and life was crumbling.

Hitch was quiet. Annie was not used to being candid about things, especially not about her feelings. Perhaps this was her great release. Admitting something so trivial, and yet so utterly impossible. She wanted to cry, but she didn't think she had any tears left.

"Look…" Hitch said, shifting uncomfortably. "If you want, I can take you home when this blizzard blows over. Just promise me you weren't abused."

"No," she said. "I wasn't. I just… I made a mistake. That's why I ran away."

"Okay…" Hitch studied her uncertainly, and then rose to her feet. "I'm going to go make a few calls, because I need to let the place I work for know I'm stuck here. I can probably grab some dinner, or something too. Soup sound good?"

"Sure."

"If I leave the door unlocked," Hitch said, staring into Annie's eyes, "do you promise not to run away?"

"I have nowhere to go," Annie replied in a quiet, dull voice. Hitch stared at her, and nodded sharply, rounding the bed and marching out the door. Annie watched her go with a mixture of curiosity and disgust.

Annie attracted the strangest people.

She curled up on Hitch's bed, suddenly aware of her exhaustion. She hadn't slept in over twenty four hours. The room was growing darker and darker, and time was slipping through Annie's fingers, and suddenly it was nightfall and Hitch had not returned, and Annie began to cry. She buried her face in the soft bedding, and muffled her sobs into the warm sheets.

Weak, weak, weak.

She must've fallen asleep, because when the door opened with a quiet squeak, she saw nothing. The room was as black as her fingers, and her sight was lost as she shifted her position, the skin around her eyes feeling tight and sticky from her tears. She decided to pretend she was still asleep so Hitch wouldn't try to strike up another conversation with her, and she closed her eyes, listening to the sound of her own breath rattle in the darkness.

Quiet steps, barely a sound to be heard. Annie's eyes snapped open. Hitch was not that quiet.

She sprung upright, leaping from the bed as a large hand closed around her hair, tearing a great chunk of it out as she crashed to the floor, gasping in astonished pain, her fingers trembling against her throbbing scalp. She skittered to her feet, blind and stumbling over clothes, her body crashing into a wall in order to avoid another swipe of a hand, her instincts kicked up into over drive as she listened and felt and ducked away, kicking her pursuer blindly. By the quiet grunt, she knew she'd caught him.

The light flickered on, and Annie saw, horrified, a broad chest between her and the door. She backed away, breathless and terrified, and she saw his face. His blue eyes watched her. There was cold hatred there.

Erwin Smith was furious.

"Annie," he said.

_His voice alone_, she thought, _could easily skin a lone wolf_.

She backed away some more, her eyes flashing. The bathroom. The window. She could hide, or she could escape. She would not be trapped and skinned, no, not today.

"I'll scream," she said suddenly. He watched her with his calm face, and livid eyes, and he lowered his hand from the light switch. "Don't come any closer. Don't come near me."

"I want to talk to you," he said. His voice was level, but his words were like monosyllabic jinxes cast upon her, locking her in place. She could sense the danger here. He would kill her if he had the chance.

"No." Looking at him, all she could see was Armin's pained little face as his body convulsed, and ice crawled over his skin. "Go away."

"You understand," he said, taking a step forward, "why I'm here."

"Please," she breathed, her shoulders sagging in defeat, "please, just leave me alone…"

He was within a foot of her. She tore off her gloves and flung her hands out, watching icicles bloom like spiky flowers. Erwin dodged them, barely, and caught her wrist in his giant fist, wrenching her arm back so hard that her shoulder popped. Her scream shuddered through the air, and she kicked the back of his knees, her eyes watering, but he was too sturdy and she was too badly injured, and so he stayed upright and bent her other hand away in order to ensure his safety from her icy skin.

"Tell me," Erwin said in his sharp, frenzied monotone, "what have you done with my son?"

_Oh god_, she thought, teary eyed and glowering, _he's going to kill me_.

She didn't think she could take another session of torture like what Marco had inflicted upon her.

_Be a liar, be a liar, be a liar_.

"I don't know what you're talking about," she spat, her frigid bones cracking.

Weak, weak, weak.

He wheeled her around, and she watched a wall come rushing to meet her, colliding with her face and sending a blast of black snow flurrying across her eyes, her vision obscure and tilting as blood spilt from her nose, collapsing onto her tongue and promptly freezing over.

"I want the truth," Erwin said. "No more games, no more lies. Where is he?"

This time, the liar in her could not win.

She stared dazedly into Erwin's cold, furious eyes, and she grinned her bloody teeth away.

"No idea," she said, relieved that she could say something honest for once.

He didn't believe her.

When he backhanded her, she had to remind herself that he was a pacifist. Whatever vision he had seen, whatever he believed she was capable of doing to Armin, it must have fucked him up. She didn't even think she could blame him for this. What he wanted was Armin. She just happened to be his only clue as to how to get to him.

"Tell me," he said, his voice rising ever so slightly. She was a little disoriented from the blow he'd delivered, and she kicked away from him, blinking rapidly as she was released, and she leapt at the bathroom door. He grabbed her by her sweater, yanking her back, and she twisted away from him, her knee jutting out and colliding with his stomach. He buckled, but did not stand down. She flipped herself so furiously that she landed on her back, her body rolling against the floor, and she planted her hands on the rough carpet, watching it grow frosty and white until every inch of it was ice.

Erwin did slip, but Annie didn't have any better traction as she slid sideways, her hair gathering in her eyes, and she shrieked as he pinned her wrists above her head.

"Get off me!" she snarled.

"Armin," he said as she kicked and squirmed, "my _son_. What have you done with him?"

She rolled her body backwards sharply, and her feet collided with his face. She was panting her body still healing itself, and the ice beneath her cracked as she leapt to her feet, stumbling a little blindly, her head pounding and her breath ragged. Maybe she should just tell him. But then, wasn't he trying to kill her? She just didn't know. This was confusing.

"I don't know, okay?" she cried hoarsely, her hands flying to her head, knotting in her hair. She didn't want to cry again, especially not in front of him. "Just leave me alone!"

She ducked a punch and punched him back, her ice clinging to his shirt, but he did not care, and he kept coming with startling precision, knocking her off her feet and catching her before she could fall. Her problem was her emotions, and his strength was his. Suddenly she was being held in a chokehold, his forearm crushing her throat.

"Give me a reason not to kill you," he whispered.

She was grappling for air, her lips parted pitifully, heaving little breaths, little breaths, weak, weak, weak little breaths.

The door burst open, and Annie was actually relieved to see Hitch's hazy face. She had her phone in her hand, and she held it level with her stricken face.

"Say hello, pal," Hitch said staring at her phone with pale, frightened eyes. "You're going to jail."

Erwin did not let go of her. Annie twisted a little in his grasp, heaving for breaths, hardly even caring that Hitch was taking a video of her.

"Annie," Erwin said. "Tell me where my son is."

"I don't _know_," she rasped. "I don't, I swear!"

"Why should I believe you?"

"Because it's the truth!"

"I'm gonna text this to the entire staff of _The Brigade_," Hitch declared. "You better—"

Annie elbowed him in the gut and slipped out of his grip, lurching toward the window. He once again snatched her by the hair, and she whirled around, placing her palm flat against his bicep and letting an icicle pierce right through his skin, muscle, and bone. He didn't scream. He merely stared at her, his shirt reddening, and she watched in horror as she retracted the ice, leaving a strangely perfect hole in his arm, blood bubbling up with every second that past.

He grasped her by the shoulder, wheeling her around, and pointed to Hitch. "Call her off," he said.

Tears stung her eyes. This man was hardly human.

"Hitch," she said, "turn the phone off."

"What?" Hitch's voice heightened in distress. "What the fuck was that? What'd you do to his arm?"

Erwin's fingers squeezed her collarbone, and she said desperately, "Give him the phone or he'll kill me."

And then, uncertainly, Hitch lowered the phone and tossed it at them. Annie caught it, and she stared at it dully before Erwin snatched it from her fingers, threw it upon the floor and crushed it with his heel.

"Jesus—!" Hitch cried.

"Annie," Erwin said in a dark voice. "Tell me everything."

"You won't believe me," Annie said weakly, weakly, such a weak little voice from a weak little girl.

"If you can lead me to where my son is," Erwin said steadily, "I will be in your debt forever."

A tantalizing thought, to be sure.

"But I don't actually know where he is," she said, pushing her hair from her eyes. She glanced at him, watching as his entire arm bloomed bright red. "You should probably stop the bleeding."

"I'll be quite alright, once you give me an idea of what happened to Armin."

"You'll just try to kill me again," she said bitterly.

"Brute force seems to be the only thing you truly react to," he said calmly.

"Go fuck yourself."

Erwin whirled her around one handedly, his eyes alight with his chilly rage, and he shook her once, hard enough for her to feel as though her brain was rattling in her skull. "He's dying," Erwin said tersely, "did you know that?"

She averted her gaze, staring at the floor and wondering what she could possibly do to get out of this mess. "Yes," she admitted.

"You know this," he said, "and yet you refuse to tell me a damned thing, when it's clear you know _something_."

_Habit_, she thought. _I'm a creature of habit_.

"You can't help him," she murmured. She felt him tighten his grip on her, and her eyes flashed to his face. "Oh, but that's not what you want to hear, is it? You want to know where he is, and that he's perfectly safe and whole, but he's not, and there's nothing you or I can do about it! He's a lost cause!"

Erwin shoved her, and she collapsed onto the floor, feeling a sob bubble in her chest. No, not now. Now wasn't time to be weak on the outside too.

"Tell me what you know, Annie."

She ran her fingers through her hair, her lips trembling miserably. "Do you want Hitch to learn all of our secrets too?" she asked bitterly. "Hitch, sit down. You get to be the neutral party."

"Annie, this guy just beat the shit out of you," Hitch said. "I should call the cops."

"No, I actually deserved this one." She sat up, staring at her knees as Hitch moved deeper into the room. "I accidentally froze his son."

"You did what?" Erwin said in a quiet, deadly tone.

"It was an accident," Annie said.

"How could I possibly believe you?" Erwin asked, bending onto one knee and holding his bloody bicep tightly in one hand. If Annie wanted to, she was positive she could win.

"I told you that you wouldn't," she snapped at him. "I told you that you wouldn't believe me, but you wanted the truth, and here it is. I never meant to hurt him. I never meant to hurt _anyone_."

Erwin was quiet then, listening to her attentively. His anger was still prevalent, but at the very least he wasn't trying to attack her any longer. He knelt before her, watching her with his clever eyes, and he reminded her so much of Armin that it made her want to attack him again. She wanted him out of her head for good.

"He's alive," Annie mumbled, "if that makes you feel any better."

"It truly does not."

"Well, I'm not happy either." She slumped, tucking her loose hair behind her ears and scowling somberly. "It wasn't like I was trying to freeze him. He was having a seizure and I panicked."

"You're not making this any better on yourself, Annie." Erwin's fist clenched around his wound, and Annie watched rivulets of blood seep through his fingers. "Where is he now?"

"I don't know, remember?" She shook her head furiously. "I left him in the cemetery with Marco."

"Marco." Erwin studied her face, and she noted that he was utterly unreadable aside from his terrifying rage. "The boy you killed. That Marco?"

"Exactly that Marco," she said bitterly. "Great deduction."

"That boy is dead," Erwin said, "I saw his corpse, Annie. You shattered half his head."

"This is the part," she said, staring into his cold blue eyes, "that you won't believe."

The fury in him seemed to be replaced by the most tender curiosity, because he leaned forward, matching her gaze.

"Try me," he said.

"What the hell is going on?" Hitch called to them, waving at them as though to remind them she was still there.

Erwin glanced at her. "You know she's a reporter for _The Brigade_, don't you?" he asked her.

Annie had not known that. "I don't really care," she said honestly.

"Fine." He watched her, his expression unchanged. "Tell me about Marco. Why did you kill him?"

"I didn't want to," she sighed, rubbing her face tiredly. "He made me do it."

"Why on earth would he want you to kill him?"

She exhaled sharply. "Because," she snapped, mimicking Marco's sweet voice, "_Marco Bodt has to die_. He faked his death so you wouldn't suspect him, and it worked! You were all eating out of the palm of his hand, doing exactly what he wanted you to do! Even now!" She jerked an accusatory finger at Erwin's face. "You're playing right into his hands! He let me run away again because he knew you'd see my future, and confront me instead of focusing on Armin! I'm the decoy!"

"I'm not following," Erwin said. "You're saying Marco has powers too, yes? He was experimented on with the rest of you?"

"You're just as much of a fool as Armin is," she spat, close to tears once again. "Marco didn't take _part_ in the experiment, he _ran_ the experiment!"

Erwin was suddenly attentive to every word she spoke, and she realized, alarmed, that he believed her.

"Annie," he said softly, "what is Marco?"

"I don't know," she said, her voice shaky and thin. "The beginning, I guess."

"The beginning of what?"

"Of _us_." She stared into his eyes fiercely, and sat up straighter. "He's our creator, our savior, our _everything_. We owe him everything. He is the only one whose power is natural, the rest of us were poked and prodded at. Even Ymir, somehow, even in 1912, Marco was able to create a human with the power of a god. We're nothing without him." _We're nothing with him either_.

"But who is he?" Erwin was no longer clutching his bleeding arm, and he leaned very close, his breath barely over a whisper. "What can he do?"

Annie's heart was thudding in her chest. _Weak, weak, weak_. How foolish she'd been all this time. She wanted to take it all back. She wanted to spill her guts, and let them all know what abominations they were.

"His power is telepathy," she admitted. Erwin's eyes darkened considerably. "It's why he's so interested in Armin. I think… I think he thinks they're the same. If…" She swallowed thickly, feeling dizzy and sick as she thought about this betrayal. Marco had raised her. He'd given her a home, and a family, and she was repaying him with these truths. _But all he ever did was feed me lies, and paint me to look like a fool, or a monster, or a pawn_, she thought feverishly. _No more_. "If I'm right about one thing, though, it's that Armin is stronger than Marco. The only difference is that Marco has had… years and years… centuries, even, to perfect and yield his power. His control is unlike anything you could imagine. He can control minds, trick minds, make minds see not him, but someone else, someone sweeter or kinder, someone you want to see desperately. Marco preys on your fears and insecurities. He knows you. He knows all of you. He knows how you think, he knows what you love, and he's tricked you into adoring him because it's just what he does. And now he has Armin."

Erwin was disturbingly quiet as she took a deep breath, tears leaking from her eyes and freezing upon her cheeks.

"And now he has Armin," Erwin echoed her softly.

She buckled under the weight of her own words.

"Marco's been inside Armin's head for months," she said, her voice bitter and broken. "One telepath created us. Two telepaths could control the entire world."

* * *

_If anyone missed the reveal where Marco is responsible for everything, maybe you should go back and reread a bit, that might help._

_I think I explained a whole lot this chapter, didn't I? Yeah._


	30. family over everything

**familia supra omnia**

**salem, massachusetts**

_a.d. iii non. nov., 2766 a.u.c._

Confinement was a familiar feeling, like the rush of emotion that came with the initial sensation of season's changing. Like summer fading into autumn, it was wind and dust whirling around in a little square cage, and something was howling and screaming and crying in desperation to get out. But at the same time, that same something was so, so relieved to be boxed in, to be safe from the cruelty of nature as it beat at the doors and the windows.

It was mighty funny how nostalgia worked.

Well, actually, to be fair? She wasn't being confined. Not really. It was more like… well, she could probably just leave whenever she wanted. But she chose not to. Because she was curious, and like hell if her curiosity didn't win out every single time.

She was lying on her bed, recalling the odd little fancies of yesteryear, the cool waters of Great Pond and the hot, listless days that drew onward with her freedom beating at her heels as she ran and ran and laughed and sang and danced and swam and felt like she belonged in this world, finally, finally, finally, until the world had decided it didn't like her much at all.

Sick children didn't last very long in 1923.

But, even so, she hadn't any real reason to complain. She remembered her childhood fondly. It was all a rush of memories, really, a prickling nostalgia that she couldn't shake. The more she thought about it, the more she realized she'd quite loved her life back then, in spite of the occasional tragedy such as the Great War, and then her mother being sent away. But, all in all, a good life.

Boy, she wished it hadn't been.

The door to Ymir's room opened, and she tore her gaze from her ceiling to glance at the dark head of hair that had popped through the doorway. A soft knocking filled the air, tapping away until she made it clear that she saw him. He grinned at her broadly, his teeth white and gleaming.

"Knock, knock," he chirped.

"Oh my," Ymir drawled, letting her voice slip into a thick accent that seem rather archaic now. "A visitor? Knockin' upon _my_ door? Why, it must be my birthday!"

He played along like he always did, bouncing into the room ready and in character. "A pretty young thing such as yourself, why," he said, gasping as he pressed his fingers to his chest, "why, how could I possibly let you rot away all by your lonesome?"

"You could lock the door," Ymir said, smiling sweetly, "with no explanation."

His face fell considerably. "Ymir—" he began, his warm eyes apologetic.

She pushed off her bed, leaping to her feet and wandered over to the corner where a victrola sat with its faded wood and discolored crank, records resting in stacks on either side. In truth, Ymir preferred the music of this generation. The loud, anxious, strangling sounds that rushed in such a rapid succession that it felt like they were crushing her lungs. She liked that there was so much emotion to it all, and yet, it all felt rather vapid. She enjoyed that weightless sense of breathlessness.

"Where'd you get this, anyhow?" she said, running her dark fingers across the top of the cabinet, a little saddened that he hadn't gotten a phonograph for her. She'd always loved it when the horn was outside the contraption, because she thought it made the sound clearer.

"Eh, yard sale," he said, stepping up to her side. "I thought you might want a throw back."

"Just being around you is a throw back," Ymir admitted. Perhaps part of her had hoped he'd died of old age, comfy in a warm bed. But no. Of course not. "Does it make you sad, Marco? That I'm all grown up now?"

Her elder brother smiled at her warmly, and he pressed his hand to her head, rubbing it affectionately. "You could never make me sad," he told her earnestly. "All I've ever wanted in the world for you is to be happy."

"Is that why you decided," Ymir said, pulling a record from its case and popping open the doors of the victrola, "to put me on ice forever? Because you want me to be happy?"

"Aw, hell," he groaned, rubbing the back of his head. "Now, c'mon. Don't get like that."

She popped the record in, and she shrugged mildly. "But I just have to know, you see," she said loftily, "because I was not happy at all whenever you woke me up on my birthday. In fact, I was rather terrified, and it was because you let me think I was going to die for about eighty years."

"You're getting it all wrong, Ymir," Marco said, touching her cheek. She jerked her face away. "Oh, please don't be angry with me, you know that kills me."

"Ah," she sighed, smiling at him genially. "If only."

He barked a laugh, and kissed her temple. "You've got a way with making me smile," he sighed into her hair. "I missed that a whole lot. I missed _you_. You believe me, don't you?"

She couldn't help it. He was too genuine.

"I believe you missed the idea of me," she said coolly. "You've got a complex, brother."

"True enough," he laughed. "I can't deny it. I think I've gone a little mad in my old age. But don't you see?" He forced her to look into his bright, brilliant brown eyes, and she saw the hope reflecting there. "That's why you're so important to me. That's why you are all so, so important. You make me feel sane."

"Tell that to Bertholdt," Ymir snorted, dropping the needle into the record.

The sound of a bell chiming startled her out of her skin. She watched the record spin, and the ringing bells melted into a soothing melody of a violin and a cello harmonizing in perfect time. She stared at the little needle as the disk spun, and she closed the cabinet as she realized she recognized this song. _Three o'clock in the Morning_, she recalled.

"We used to dance to this song," she said quietly.

"That we did." He watched her curiously, and she couldn't help but frown as he offered her a hand. He knew she was sad. The bastard. "Give me the honor of a dance, little sister?"

She didn't want to. She liked dancing— loved it, actually— but he was so out of touch with reality, and she knew full well he was just trying to relive their glory days of when she was a child and knew no better than to trust him with all her heart. But even so, his pull was too strong. She took his hand hesitantly.

"Only because you're so pathetic," she scoffed.

He grinned, his cheeks caving as his dimples came through, dark freckles stretching about his cheeks. He was so happy she was here, and she hated that. She wanted to go back to Historia, or at the very least to Connie, who expected nothing from her except safety from fire. And she'd even made a folly of that.

"You're so sad, Ymir," Marco said, sounding alarmed as their footfalls served as the backdrop to the fibers of a bow screeching shrill against wire, a sound strangely comforting. "That's my fault, isn't it?"

"Probably," she admitted. "Things aren't the same as they were ninety years ago. I'm a completely different person."

"You know I never meant you any harm, right?"

"Oh no," she said, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. A trumpet beat at the air, their shoes scuffing as they shuffled their feet expertly in time with the familiar tune. "Of course not. You just let me rot with tuberculosis for ninety years. No biggie, bro."

His fingers dug into her back, and let her stare burn heavily into his. He looked to be the sad one now, his eyes drooping and his lips parted as though he wanted to say something but could not find the words. His feet moved, and they swayed, a familiar dance to a familiar song, but nostalgia could only get them so far. He was still a rotten boy, and she was still hopelessly pining for his affections, admiring him and despising him, like any dutiful sister might.

"_La __ú__nica cosa que quer__í__a era que nunca me dejar__á__s_," he whispered. Tender voice and tender words, but nothing could excuse his selfishness.

"And the only thing I wanted," she replied, her voice cold and bitter to the very bone, "was to be normal. What a wish that was, huh?"

"Why crave normalcy," he asked, blinking at her, "when you're perfect the way you are?"

"You like to tell me that," she said. "That I'm perfect."

"Well, I think you are."

"Bull."

"Bull on you, hot shot," he teased her, twirling her around. "I love everything about you."

She wanted to laugh, or maybe sob, but neither seemed to suit her at the moment. So instead she simply stared at him, her dark eyes narrowing. "Oh?" she asked him, her voice sweet as honey. "Even my name?"

He grimaced.

This time, she did laugh. She threw her head back and laughed so heartily that her ribs ached. "Caught you, didn't I?" She grinned at him wickedly. "Tell me this now, will you? Was I ever anything more than a replacement?"

"Ymir," he said, taking her shoulders as the music melted into chiming bells once more. "You know you are. I… I know what it must look like to you, but—"

"No." She shoved him very hard in the chest, watching him stumble in alarm. "No more. I love you, but I hate what you are, and I hate what you've done. Why couldn't you just let me die, Marco?"

"Because I love you," he said earnestly, staring into her eyes and pleading with her without resorting to begging on his hands and knees. "Because you're my sister, no matter the circumstance. I'm sorry for the things I did in the past. I was so blind with you— naïve, I think. I'm different now. I understand. You're free to be whoever you want to be."

"The person I want to be," Ymir declared, the needle skimming the surface of the record and forcing it to skip, skip, skip away, "is not perfect, and not pretty, and not nice. The person I am now is just a pale reflection of who I used to be and who I want to be, and that's all your goddamn fault. I hate people, or at least I want to, because you made me want to hate the whole damn world with your lies and your manipulations. Look at you!" She jerked her hand at his face, her eyes flashing in disdain. "You're so sick of yourself, you can barely stand it!"

"I'm lonely," he whispered, his eyes widening in shock. She could see how hurt he was. The warmth was gone. There was only sadness. "You'd be sick, too, Ymir, if you saw what was inside my head…"

"Pass," she told him coolly.

He was looking at her as though she was a goddess. But that was nothing new.

"Look," she said, looking up at the ceiling and exhaling sharply. "I'll stay with you. Forever and ever, or at least until I die. And, yes, Marco, I will die. No more cryogenics for me, _hermano_. But I have one condition."

"Name it," he said eagerly.

"Leave them all alone."

He blinked at her curiously, his long eyelashes batting. Innocent as ever. The crook. The liar. She couldn't help but pity him.

"Them?" he asked uncertainly.

"Everyone," Ymir said firmly, folding her arms across her chest and standing tall. "Historia, Connie, Petra, Eren, Armin, Mikasa, Jean, Sasha, Reiner, Bertholdt, Annie, Levi, Erwin, Hange— _everyone_!" She raised her chin high in defiance of him. "This world does not belong to you. And their lives are their own. Let them go, Marco. They deserve the peace you can never have."

He smiled wanly. "It's not so simple," he whispered.

"Oh," she cooed, pressing a finger to her lips thoughtfully as she smirked, "am I not enough for you, big brother? Must you take every little happiness I happen to have?"

"They could be dying, Ymir," Marco sighed. "I'm responsible for them. I did this to them."

"Dying," Ymir repeated. "Dying? You're full of shit."

"You're full of shit, _Ymierda_," he said, grinning at her. She felt actually offended on Connie's behalf.

"You stole that out of Connie's head," she said. "Skeev."

"True enough," he admitted. "But I'm serious. I kinda really messed up. Your brother's a real asshole."

"Yup," she agreed, "can't argue with that one. Alrighty, what'd you fuck up, then, huh? Did you not experiment on 'em right?"

"The experiments were definitely the best they could've possibly been," he sighed. "The problem is that I can't account for human anatomy. Armin's tumor came back."

Ymir didn't really care. She was about to tell him so, that Marco should just let Armin die like nature intended, because it'd mean less suffering on his part. But then she recalled Historia. _Armin is her brother_, Ymir thought. _Aw, hell_. There was a cold, empty feeling swelling inside her stomach.

"That's a shame," she found herself saying vacantly.

"He's just a boy, you know," Marco said, eying her in a way that made her suspect he wanted something. "Compared to us, he's practically an infant. And he's so powerful, Ymir, you haven't a clue."

"I've been in his head," Ymir said, throwing him a sharp glance. "He's been in mine. I know what he's capable of, _hermano_."

"No," he said, shaking his head furiously. "No, you really don't. He's unlike anything I've ever seen, and you _know_ how old I am."

"Hella," Ymir said. He laughed at her, but she paid no mind.

"You're using modern slang," he said softly. "That's so surreal."

"This entire week has been surreal," she said. "Don't think I'm not still mad at you for burning Connie's house. That was a dick move, bro."

"More slang!" He looked exceptionally pleased. "Ha ha, yeah. That was rude of me."

"Yeah, just a little."

"Oh, but you understand why, don't you?" His expression twisted in doubt, and he watched her with his eyes heavily lidded and sad. Like a puppy. She wanted to kick him, but she thought against it. "I didn't want them to know about me, and you were going off and telling them everything."

"You tried to kill Petra for no reason," Ymir reminded.

Marco groaned, running his fingers through his hair. Oh yes, she'd caught him there. "It's all Jean's fault," he muttered. "Jean just… won't let this hero thing go. It's annoying."

"Weren't you responsible for that, though?" She was amused. He'd created his own problems so thoroughly, and had no idea how to eradicate them.

"I didn't think he'd take it this far!" Marco sat down on her bed, looking rather normal now, like a real teenager distraught about school or something equally trivial. "I thought he'd quit after I died."

"Guess you don't know him as well as you thought you did," she chirped.

"Dry up, doll."

She gave a great, hearty laugh, feeling the need to point and mock him. "Testy, testy!" she crowed. "You sad your boyfriend loved you enough to want to avenge you? You're so pathetic."

"I suppose I am," he admitted, rubbing his face tiredly. "You'll have to excuse me for that. I don't have much left to me, but I thought I could at least savor in Jean's life being his own."

"Yeah, you mucked that up real fine," she snorted. "Why even involve him in the first place?"

"How couldn't I?" Marco looked at her desperately, his brow furrowing and his lips parting. "After he became my friend he was enamored with Mikasa. I considered getting into his head to make him let it go, but I thought that'd be too invasive and cruel. I just let him be, and that was my mistake with him." Marco's eyes darkened considerably. "I should have erased his memory of me and left. I shouldn't have gone through the trouble of faking my death."

"You must respect him a lot," Ymir said.

Marco bowed his head. A confirmation of that fact. Ymir found herself smirking, and she marched up to him, leaning over so her face was very close to his. He eyed her a little warily, but she could tell her was amused by her nonetheless. At least Marco got her silly antics, and never took her too seriously.

"Or maybe," she cooed, "you _love_ him."

"Well that would be scandalous," he said gently.

"It ain't 1923 anymore, you damn hobo."

He quirked an eyebrow, and he began to clap very slowly, the sound ringing in her ears as he smiled. "Excellent assessment," he said.

"Well, what's the problem with admitting it, then?" She leaned back on her heels, her eyes narrowing at him sharply. "I'm just the same, and I've never had a problem admitting it."

"Maybe you're just braver than I am?" Marco offered.

"Nope," she said firmly. "You're perfectly okay with your sexuality, I can tell. You're just doing this to tease me."

At that, he grinned. "It amazes me," he said, staring at her in disbelief, "how well you know me."

_A hundred years is a long time, buddy_, she wanted to say. But, in truth, she wasn't sure if she knew him all that well at all. There were so many gaps, and he was such an enigma. She wished so very badly to be free of him, but she knew that she could never be free. He was responsible for her life. And he truly loved her, whether she liked it or not. She wished there could be another way, because she didn't fancy herself being with him until the end of her days, but if it was the only way to pull his attention away from the others then so be it. She could make that sacrifice.

_So much for living for myself_, she thought bitterly.

She was aware in her own flaws. She loved people too much.

Wasn't that such an awful joke? She wished for nothing more than to hate and hate, but all she was capable of was love. No matter what she tried, she cared too much, and she wanted too much, and she was living in the shadow of a boy who'd given her too much. Love and hate were warped in her head, and she couldn't differentiate any longer.

"It amazes me," she said, shooting him a chilly look, "how little you know _me_."

"I'm sorry," Marco said, his eyes large and beseeching. "I'm so sorry, I've been horrible to you, I know."

"Not just to me," she accused, "to all of us. You've made a mess of everything. You've ruined more lives than you've helped."

"True enough," he sighed. "But bear with me. I learn from my mistakes like any other human."

She gave a derisive snort. "Yes," she said, her eyes rolling back. "Because you are so human. Hell, Marco, you've barely any humanity left in you!"

He was hurt by that. She could tell by the way he flinched back, his eyes widening and his muscles coiling in tension. "No," he said, "no, that's not… that's not true."

"You've hurt so many people," she said sharply, "and for what? You play sick games, because your mind is sick, and you are so sick of being by yourself that you can't even remember what it's like to be a human being! You say Armin is dying, but you don't truly care. You'll make an even bigger monster of him, turn him into something he's not. It's what you do."

He lurched to his feet, grabbing her arms and squeezing her biceps.

"No!" he cried, his breath beating at her face. She could see the tears in his eyes. _Are they real_, she thought, _or just another fabrication?_ "I know I've made… a lot of awful decisions, but… but I've only done it to protect all of you! Don't you see?"

"I see," she said, shoving him back and whirling away from him. "I see that no matter how old you are, you'll always be a weak little boy too tempted to resist his own power. Pathetic."

He didn't respond. She thought she must've struck a chord, since he didn't laugh or tease or twist her words. It was fascinating.

He took her by the hand, which she had the immense urge to shake off, and he watched her with his warm eyes flashing in desperation. His skin was almost cold to touch in comparison to hers, but she paid no mind, nor did he.

"Ymir," he said gently. "I need you to do me a favor."

She found herself smiling humorlessly, her eyes closing as she realized what was going on here. "You only came to see me because you wanted something," she said.

"You think the worst of me."

"You _are_ the worst, Marco, don't you see?" She wanted to scream at him for being so hopelessly selfish, but she couldn't because he was exactly what she wanted to be. She wanted to be selfish too, to leave him to his snares and traps, to steal Historia away and never think of Marco again, even though he'd likely be in control of the entire world if she left him be. He already controlled this country through a series of obedient puppets. He practically already had the world in his hands.

"Ymir," he said, his bony fingers digging into her palm. "Please come with me."

And she did. But only because she had nothing better to do, and spiting Marco only got her so far. He pulled her through her door and into the hall of the facility. It was the old building, the oldest and the first, the one she'd been born and raised in. Ymir had thought it had been abandoned, but she realized it had merely extended its reach below ground. It'd be difficult for anyone to find it below the debris scattered across the labyrinth above.

And below it was a great maze of catacombs, pale walls rising everywhere, no significant characteristics to tell her where she was or where she was going. Marco led her along like the child he thought she was, and they twisted about in zigzags and sharp turns, making her dizzy and sick from the confusion. Finally they reached a door, and Marco glanced at her.

"Don't be angry," he said. And he opened the door.

It was a great chunk of crystal. The room was frigid, blasts of cold air blowing at her face, and she shuddered, folding her arms across her chest and scowling. She didn't come here to be frozen again. She glanced at Marco as he stepped into the room, ushering away some scientist or another. He came up to the crystal and stared at it. Then he turned to Ymir and smiled.

"I had a little trouble with Annie this morning," he admitted. Ymir came closer, and she saw a sweet looking face behind the thick layers of ice. A familiar face. _Historia_, she thought for a split second, her heart thundering in her chest. But no. No, she saw, getting so close to the crystal that her breath fogged against the ice, that it was not Historia at all.

"She froze Armin?" Ymir blurted, feeling a little better knowing it wasn't Historia, but angry nonetheless. "You let her do that? What the _hell_?"

"I figured it'd be easier to get him away from her if it happened," her awful brother laughed. "Also, he's not doing too well. His health, I mean. I don't think he's going to last much longer."

"And whose fault is that?"

"Hey," Marco said, holding his hands up in defense, "I genuinely cannot change nature."

"So…" She peered at Armin's face in the foggy ice, his little face serene in spite of his predicament. "What're you gonna do with him?"

"Oh, well," Marco laughed easily, "I was hoping you'd melt him for me."

_Of course you were_, she thought, peering at Armin's face through the crystalline structure of the ice. She noted that the crystal seemed to be giving off a chill, possibly keeping itself frozen somehow. Annie's power worked differently than Ymir's, so she couldn't be sure.

"What will you do with him after I release him?" she asked apprehensively. She wouldn't free this boy if it meant he would have to undergo Marco's curiosity. Or, in all reality, his cruelty. He didn't really understand the difference between the two, unfortunately.

"I'd like to speak with him candidly," Marco said.

"And then what?"

"It depends on him," he said, his eyes cast upward at the crystal. Ymir didn't really like the sound of that.

"Look, _hermano_," she said, rounding on him. "I ain't gonna do this if you have some grand divine plan for him. I thought I said I'd stay if you _didn't_ do stuff like this."

"Calm down," he sighed. "Honestly. He'll be perfectly fine. I mean, aside from the fact that he's dying."

"You're such a liar," she breathed. Why did she always fall for it?

She pressed her fingers to the ice, her skin initially jerking in discomfort, and the ice actually hissed and steamed against contact. She decided to readjust her grip so her hands weren't on Armin's face, otherwise it might end badly for him. She focused her energy forward, laying her palms against the ice and listening to the flames gutter into existence, licking at the surface of the crystal. It was not going to be a quick process, she knew, but she tried her best anyway with moving her fiery fingers around the ice, watching steam rise from it as rivulets of water slid away, the structure caving in upon itself with every moment that passed.

Armin's head poked through, and after half an hour of careful heating, they managed to tug him out of his icy tomb. Marco looked delighted, which didn't sit well with her, but she was more focused on the face that Armin had been frozen solid. Was he okay? Would he be okay? Why did she even _care_?

"I've got him," Marco said, scooping Armin into his arms. The tiny boy sank limply, looking smaller and smaller with every moment that passed. His hair and clothes were damp, and when Ymir touched his cheek his skin felt like marble.

"Get him some clothes," she said, following Marco as he laid Armin out on a table, his lips blue and parted, his hair plastered to his pallid cheeks. Marco looked surprised, but he nodded curtly, and turned away.

"Stay with him," he told her. She didn't need to be told twice. She pressed her hands to his cheeks, fidgeting uncomfortably at the cold clamminess of his skin, but she knew that the heat of her body would be an immense help to him, so she left her hands there. Last time she'd touched him, she recalled, she'd accidentally burned him. She would not make such a folly again.

After a minute had passed, color flood the boy's cheeks, turning his pasty skin a faint rosy hue. Ymir was reminded once again of Historia, which made none of this easier. _Damn it,_ she thought, _why do they have to look so alike?_ She wasn't sure what to do about any of this.

She lifted her hands as his eyes twitched behind their lids, and the blue of them could be seen through the murkiness as they cracked open. Then, suddenly, his eyelids peeled back, and he was bolting upright with a scream ripping from his throat, so terrible and shrill that Ymir clamped her hands over her ears and hunched backwards. He was screaming so loudly that she could feel the floor vibrating, and her head was spinning madly as his voice smashed into her mind and tore away all semblance of evasion she'd managed to procure for herself, a defense against mind readers.

"Armin," she gasped, her voice thin and shaky. His awful screaming was bursting like bombs in her eyes, and she thought she might explode. "_ARMIN_!"

He stopped. His fingers were knotted in his hair, and his lips were trembling, and there were tears streaking his splotchy cheeks. And he looked up at Ymir and gaped. His eyes were murky and sad. And also, very suddenly, aware. He dropped his hands very slowly, very shakily, into his lap. His lips trembled.

"Ymir…?" he breathed. His eyes darted around him, and she saw him shrink into himself, terror clear in his little face. This was not going to go well. "Where…? I don't…?"

"Don't overexert yourself, love," she said, pressing her hand to the crown of his head. He flinched. He stared at her confusedly, his eyes wide and fearful, but then he seemed to relax. He leaned into her touch.

"Where's Annie?" he asked dimly.

She sat down on the table beside him, noting how he quaked and shuddered, a result of being trapped in ice, and she carefully wrapped her arms around him. He looked utterly appalled, his body tensing so badly that she thought he might be frozen again. But her warmth seemed to be enough for him to trust her, because he slumped against her with his little breaths shallow against her neck.

"I'm s-so…" he whispered. "I'm…"

"I know," she told him. "It's a lot to take in. The freezing part is never as bad as the waking up."

His eyelashes tickled her throat, and she imagined for a moment what Historia was doing. _I owe it to her_, Ymir thought, _to keep this boy alive_. If not for just long enough that she could see him again.

"You were cryogenically preserved," he mumbled against her skin. It was surprising that he wasn't reacting violently by her touch. She was thankful, but confused. Last time he'd puked. "You're such… such an amazing scientific anomaly… how were you even created given the technological limitations of the early twentieth century…? How…?"

"You ask a lot of questions for a dead boy."

"I'm not dead yet," he said weakly. "And I'd like to have some answers before I die, t-thank you!"

Ymir laughed at him, listening to the sound of her own chortling and hating herself a little for it. "Don't worry, _mi muchacho lindo_," she said. "You'll get your answers, alright."

"Mm…" Armin shifted a little in discomfort. "Don't call me that…"

"_Mi muchacho lindo_?"

"Yeah, th-that's so weird…"

"You're weird," she told him. "Get out. Nerd." She bopped his forehead, and she felt a great amount of satisfaction when he let out a weak little chuckle.

"What's…" He spoke in a slow, slurred voice, and Ymir was growing a little concerned because he was shaking into her side, his body thin and cold, and his teeth chattering just beneath her ear. "What's going to… to happen to me…? To us…?"

Ymir wished she knew. "Maybe we'll all become really famous and get a movie deal, or somethin'," she said.

He chuckled again. _He must be a real goner_, she thought, _if he's laughin' at my jokes_. "Make sure the actor that plays me doesn't hurt himself," he said softly. "Th-that'd suck. Poor guy."

"Maybe Historia can just play you," Ymir offered. "She's a pretty good actor."

"I can't imagine s-she'd like that at all," he mumbled.

"Nah, she'd hate it. We should petition her to do it. Put it in your will."

"To my dear and loving sister," Armin said quietly, "I will the rights to my face. Play me in the inevitable documentary about m-me. G-bye."

"G-bye?"

"G-bye."

"Amazing," she said. _He's taking this so lightly_, she thought. _When I was diagnosed with TB I couldn't stop crying, I was so scared_. Armin and Historia were a lot alike, it seemed. "Take your shirt off."

He looked up at her, and she felt a prickle against her skin, a spark of his thoughts and the taste of him blipping on her tongue, all funny and dry, dusty pages and diluted ink. She unwound her arm from his shoulders, and reached for the top button of his damp shirt. He leaned back on impulse.

"Read my mind," she said to him, grabbing his bare fingers and squeezing them in her own. He tasted like crumpled paper and bleeding black ink, and it dribbled down her throat, thick and acrid. He stared at her with his gauzy blue eyes wide, his teeth chattering beneath his blue lips, and he knew. He understood what she was doing for him.

With shaky fingers he began to unbutton the thin white cotton shirt, and Ymir wondered if he was always this helpless, or if it was just because he was dying. She helped him peel the wet cloth from his skin, and he was trembling so badly now that he looked as though he was about to snap in half. His bare skin was glazed with water and he hugged himself very tightly, his arms curling about his chest as though to cover himself.

"Chill, _mi muchacho lindo_," she said. "You haven't got any breasts worth lookin' at."

He scowled at her at that, taking offense at one of her jokes for the first time. Well, it had to happen eventually. His scrawny shoulders were shaking terribly, and Ymir could see his ribs with excruciating clarity. He was utterly emaciated, his bones protruding from his skin like blunt knives edging to get out. She could understand why he was barely alive, with a skeletal body like that.

"Ymir, don't tease him."

Armin jumped nearly out of his skin at the sound of Marco's voice, and his shaking only got worse, his body close to convulsions with the way it trembled. His head whipped toward the door, damp hair whirling around his head and clapping against his cheeks and sticking to his forehead. Ymir could hear his ragged breaths, and she watched is bony chest rise and fall so heavily she thought his ribs might cave.

"What…?" Armin sank back, blinking profusely, and Ymir could almost hear his thoughts. A mantra that sang that this was all just a bad dream, bad dream, bad dream. "Ymir, w-where am I?"

She didn't want to scare him. How was she supposed to tell him he'd been brought back to a facility? She didn't want to touch him either, because he seemed utterly terrified, and she would only make it worse. So she stayed quiet. She stayed quiet, and she glared at Marco, who stood with a fresh pair of clothes and gurney stacked with all sorts of medical supplies. Armin was staring at it with large eyes.

"I'm sorry, Armin," Marco said, maneuvering the gurney around the large puddle of water from the ice Ymir had melted. "Dr. Jaeger isn't currently at this facility— he's down south right now with Bertholdt and Reiner, but he should be back shortly. Don't worry, though. I don't intend on letting you die."

Armin was hyperventilating.

"Stop," Ymir snapped at Marco. "Holy crow, _hermano_, you're giving him an asthma attack!"

"I've got an inhaler," he replied, as though it excused all. And to prove it, he plucked an inhaler from the gurney and brought it over to Armin, offering it out to him. Armin merely stared, his face reddening and his breath short and raspy. He heaved, his fingers twitching at his throat, and he eyed the inhaler distrustfully. Ymir had to laugh.

"He really doesn't trust you!" She slapped her knee as her laughter went. "Not that I blame him!"

"Armin, it's just an inhaler, I swear." Marco pushed it in his face, and Armin, who was rasping so terribly that he was swaying in place, had no choice but to take it. He inhaled two puffs, tears leaking from his eyes, and he gasped, and coughed, and shook his head furiously. The air was thin and cold, and so was he.

"W-what…?" he gasped, tears running down his cheeks. "What's going on…?"

"Nothing, really," Marco said, setting the clothes down beside Armin and whirling away. Ymir watched him pull the gurney forward, its wheels squeaking against the floor.

"Well, I mean, aside from your imminent death," Ymir chirped.

"Now, now, Ymir," Marco said, shooting her a look. "Did I not say I that I have no intention of letting Armin die? Stop scaring him."

"He should be scared," she said, folding her arms across her chest. Armin was staring at the fresh pair of clothes, and then at Marco.

"You're real," he said in a dead little voice. "All this time. All this time I thought you were a sign of my declining mental and physical health. But you were just a monster playing pretend inside my head."

"You did have some real hallucinations at first," Marco admitted, wrapping a blanket around the tiny boy's quaking shoulders. "It wasn't a total lie. I merely took my place in the illusions your mind was already in the process of formulating. Sometimes I couldn't even discern what was my own creation, and what was inside your head. It was a very strange thing."

"Get away from me," Armin said, hunching as Marco released his shoulders, leaving the blanket where it lay. "You— you make me sick!"

Marco sighed, and he took a step back as he rubbed his head irritably. "Overdramatic much, Armin?" He pointed to the clothes at the boy's side. "Change into those. You'll feel better, I promise."

Armin's teeth were chattering, and there were tear tracks glistening wetly on his face, his skin too damp to allow them to dry. And even so, even with his poor health, his weak, starving body, even though he'd been frozen just ten minutes ago, he glared at Marco with everything in him. There was hatred in this boy's eyes. Ymir was sorta proud of him.

"I just can't understand your motivation," Armin whispered. "Why make me feel as though I'm going insane? How could you possibly benefit from that?"

Marco watched him, and Ymir turned away as he tapped the clothes. Without speaking, Marco informed Armin that the only way he would answer is if he did as he said. Ymir wanted to go back to her room now, but she dreaded leaving Armin alone.

Armin closed his eyes, wrapping the blanket tighter around himself as he pushed himself shakily off the table, nearly falling flat on his face before stumbling and grasping the edge of it. When Marco reached out to help him, Armin reeled on him, his face warped in terror and determination. His blanket slid from his shoulders as he hunched over, breathless.

"_**No**_!" he snapped, flinging his arm out to keep Marco away. Ymir leapt to her feet as Marco, instead, was thrown across the room. She watched his body smash into the opposite wall, cracking pitifully and crumpling to the floor.

Armin was breathing so heavily that it was all Ymir could hear. She stared, open mouthed and stunned into silence, and she wondered how on earth Armin's mind could've evolved to make him so powerful. _No wonder Marco wants you_, she thought numbly.

"I-I…" Armin breathed. Ymir glanced at him, and she could see the tears welling up in his eyes. She sighed. "No, I… I don't understand… I shouldn't… I'm not…"

"Change," Ymir told him. He looked up at her in alarm, his pale hair drying in tufts around his dewy eyes. "Before he wakes up."

If Armin were actually Historia, she might've cared a little more about how utterly lost he seemed to be, but she was trying not to panic in her own revelation. If Armin could do this sort of thing, what would Marco do with him? If his mental power was so immense that he was capable of telekinesis, what was his _telepathy_ like? This boy was dangerous. _I'll take him and run now_, she thought, _so Marco can't find a way to cheat his death. If he dies, then Marco can't have his mind_.

"Do you think that would work?"

She jumped, glancing at him as he kicked his damp jeans away, wrapping his blanket carefully to cover himself. She'd been evading his power for so long, it was strange to know he'd caught what she'd been thinking. "I don't know," she admitted. "But it ain't like we have a lot of options."

Armin nodded distantly, pulling on a pair of gray sweatpants beneath the towel. "I understand," he said hoarsely. His tears were trickling slowly down his cheeks now, and she pitied him. She could not help but pity him, because his life was over whether he lived on or not. He was Marco's toy and tool, just as much as she was. There was no escaping it. "My death would be a blessing. I'm too dangerous to live."

_If you weren't already dying_… Ymir thought at him.

"I understand," he repeated, pulling a thin shirt over his head. His skinny body swam in it. His teeth were still chattering, and he was still crying, and Ymir wished she could help him somehow, but it didn't seem possible.

_Hey, guys_.

Ymir squeezed her eyes shut at the familiar tickle of Marco's voice inside her head. She could feel Armin tensing up beside her.

_So, like_, Marco thought, the sound of his footfalls filling the room, _did you forget that_ _I can hear your thoughts too, or…?_

"Oh, go to hell," Ymir said.

"If only, if only," he said, his voice floating by her ear. She glanced up at him. He was resting his hands on the gurney, smiling at Armin as though nothing were wrong with the world, as though the boy was not slipping between deaths fingers with every breath he managed to inhale. "You know, if she's convincing you that your death will bring the world peace and happiness, you probably shouldn't listen to her. You know life isn't that simple."

Armin was leaning heavily on the table for support, tears running in thick streams against his ruddy cheeks, and even so he glowered. She knew he was just pretending to be brave, and that he was hardly even standing on his feet, but she had to admire his guts anyway.

"Come on," Marco said, removing the equipment he'd gathered from the gurney and onto the table. "Sit. Let me explain."

"You have an explanation?" Armin's voice was hoarse and dry as it sliced through his chattering teeth. "Amazing. This is going t-to be great."

"Sit," Marco said. And Armin obeyed. As if he had any other choice. Ymir sat back down on the table as Marco tied a tourniquet around his bicep, and Ymir looked into Armin's dazed eyes and wondered if the boy could even feel the insertion of a needle into a vein in his hand. "I should probably start by apologizing."

"Too late for that, brother," Ymir said coolly.

"Brother," Armin said softly. He closed his eyes. Marco said nothing in response, and merely set up an intravenous drip on a stand. "You two are siblings."

"Of sorts," Marco said, plucking the blanket from the floor and wrapping it carefully around Armin's shoulders. "It's a bit more complicated than that. Her blood is most certainly my own, in some way or another, but siblings wouldn't be the best technical term."

Armin raised his eyes to Marco, and his thick brows furrowed. "Don't tell me you're her father," he said blandly.

Ymir snorted. Marco merely smiled placidly, as was his way, and he shook his head. "Not quite," he said. "Though I suppose in a sense, since I'm the reason she exists, but I won't attribute that sort of reasoning to this, or else I'd have to call you all my children." Marco grimaced, and shook his head furiously. "That's really not what I want."

"Then what do you want?" Armin swiped at his tears, his breath still shallow and his teeth still chattering and his body still trembling, and it was very clear that he was not doing well. He sunk deeper into his blanket, staring at Marco with disbelief glowing in his gauzy eyes. "Immortality?"

Marco smiled faintly. "So close," he laughed. "But I'm already immortal. Take another shot."

"You're immortal?" Armin croaked, looking at him rather strangely. "Wait, for real?"

"Yeah!" Marco twirled a metal instrument between his fingers, and he offered it out to her. "You wanna show him, Ymir?"

"Eh." She took it from him, fingering the edge of it to test how blunt it was. "I dunno, _hermano_. Doesn't look like it'll go all the way through."

"I thought your anger would be force enough," he said, smiling at her brightly. She stared at him.

She shoved the instrument between his ribs, a shockwave running up her arm from the effort it took to break skin and muscle, and she listened to the sound of metal piercing flesh and scraping bone, sinking into his heart. He buckled a little, gasping in hollow pain, and he grasped her shoulders in order to keep himself upright. Blood soaked his left breast, painting the front of his shirt and leaking down his side. She felt it squirming between her fingers as she pulled the rod out.

"Was that how Annie did it?" Ymir asked vacantly, studying the dark blood oozing down the surface of the rod, dribbling with the consistency of sticky melted sugar to the floor.

"Oh, no," Marco coughed, holding his ribs and grinning a red smile. "She was much less willing."

"What…?" Armin's eyes were wide and bewildered. His already pallid skin had taken on a sickly sallow hue. "What the…?"

Armin doubled over on the gurney and hurled his guts onto the floor, his vomit splashing against the glimmering ruby hue of Marco's blood. Ymir sidestepped it, and she tossed the metal instrument at Marco, listening to the sounds of the poor boy retching, his shaky body jerking with every breath.

"Now look what you've done," Ymir said. "Stupid."

Marco smeared his bloody hand across her cheek in response. "Don't patronize me, little sister," he said.

Armin was curled up in his blanket, holding his stomach and coughing. Ymir grimaced and rubbed the blood from her cheek onto her sleeve. She watched Marco wipe his hands on a spare towel he must've brought in anticipation for the moment, and when he was done he tossed it to her. She caught it, and frowned at him.

"I'm sorry, Armin," Marco said gently. "I thought I'd just show you instead of explaining, but I guess that wasn't a good idea."

"Y-you think?" Armin spat, his expression twisted in utter disgust. "Why would you…? Even if you could heal, I don't…?" His eyes flashed suddenly, and he recoiled from Marco. "You made Annie kill you!"

"Aren't you supposed to be the smart one?" Ymir found herself asking, laughter tinged in her voice. He didn't spare her a glance, and instead scrutinized Marco so thoroughly that she thought her brother actually looked _uncomfortable_.

"Yes, I made Annie kill me," Marco said. "But I had my reasons."

"I don't believe this," Armin breathed, clutching his head. "I don't understand, I don't—" Tears were welling up in his eyes again, and he dug at his scalp, his IV drip pulling at his hand. "Is this real? Am I dreaming?"

"It's very real, Armin," Marco said.

Ymir could only laugh, feeling so damn sorry, and so damn angry, and she laughed away her disgust. "You fucked him up awful bad," she said.

"I want to go home," he said.

Marco said nothing this time. Typical.

"_**I want to go home**_!" Armin screamed, clawing at his head, tearing at his hair until it came out in soft yellow clumps, blood smearing across his stubby nails bitten to the soft fleshy skin. Ymir could see now how truly terrible this boy had been treated. His sobs were ugly and loud, breaking in awful notes like piano keys being struck with a sledge hammer, ivory shattering with shrill shrieks, metal strings snapping and coiling, and the earth seemed to shake with his immense despair.

Marco took Armin's bloody hands in his own, pulling them from his scalp. Armin jerked backwards upon contact, but Marco soothed him with a gentle word, laying his lips to Armin's forehead, and then lifting his chin with his knuckle.

"_**Sleep**_," Marco whispered. He pressed his lips to Armin's, muffling his soft cries and causing him to buckle in shock. His bloody fingers flew out, catching Marco's throat for just a moment, curling ever so slightly in a clench. His wet, glimmering eyes were wide with terror, and there was something like agony writhing in his tears as they slithered against his skin.

And then, all at once, his eyes slid closed. He slumped onto the gurney, his breathing reedy and thin.

Marco held Armin's bloody hands to his throat.

"Do you see, Ymir," he said, "why I am the way I am?"

Armin looked almost peaceful as he slumbered, his lips parted and his face half buried in the padding of the gurney. She could only stare at him, a sick feeling crawling around inside her stomach, capturing her heart in a snare.

"No," she said in a hollow voice. "The only thing I see is a monster."

* * *

_i wonder how uncomfortable marco makes other people feel, bc tbh when i was writing him i was kinda like, yeah that makes sense, these motives make sense. but maybe he's not quite as sympathetic as i intended. he's p gross either way._

_gosh, look at everything being revealed! isn't it exciting? lmao i tried_


	31. bodies grow slowly and die quickly

**copora lente augescent cito extinguuntur**

**bodies grow slowly and die quickly**

**salem, massachusetts**

_?_

Snow was gathering in the boy's hair as he peered in through the clasped shutters, the faint sounds of howling floating through the crevices. It was so dark, and the night was so quiet, that the screaming was unholy and deafening in the bitterness of the wintery night. Through the boy's eyes, two little girls could be seen within the house's interior, writhing and howling and hurling books and utensils at the walls. The boy was grinning at the sight.

He turned his head away and muffled a giggle into his hand.

He was grabbed by the back of his surcoat and dragged from the scene of the two little screeching girls convulsing and snarling like the little beasts that they were. His heels drew long tracks in the gathering layers of snow.

"Sister!" he cried, wriggling and laughing as he batted away a girl's small hand. "Sister, you're hurting me!"

She was a few inches shorter than him, her dark face blending into the shadows of night, and the snow gathered in her pale bonnet as she lifted her head high. In the darkness he could see her, feel her presence, taste it bleeding on his tongue like honeysuckle and morning dew, so innocent and sweet, and yet here she was, giving him the most intense little scowl.

"What have you done?" she snapped at him. Her voice was as chilly as the January air, and he could only bask in it. Angry with him, was she? Excellent. "You incredible fool!"

"Hush now, dear sister," he laughed, kicking snow onto her skirt. She lunged at him, and he ducked away, bowing low and grinning at his feet. "I've done nothing wrong!"

"You always say that," she hissed, stamping her foot. Ice cracked beneath the soles of her soft leather shoes. "Do you not think I know you better? You've been causin' mischief, I can see it in your eyes."

"Oh?"

"Yes!" She snatched him by the ear, and he winced a little as she yanked him down the snowy road. "Tell me what you've done, now. No tricks, no lies. Talk to me straight, Mark."

"Mark," he repeated softly, yanking his head back and rubbing his ear. "Is that how it is, then? Fine, then. _Elizabeth_."

"I'll bury you alive in the forest, so help me," she warned him.

"You could not," he told her, raising his chin jauntily. "You'd get lonely."

The wind whistled through the road, sending snow flying all around them, swirling wildly in the darkness. There were no streetlamps, no paved roads. Only a few houses and a dusty dirt road, blanketed with snow. In the distance there was an alarmingly loud _crash_. An earsplitting shriek followed it, splitting harshly across the night and cutting through the wail of the wind, making its howling fall silent.

She stared at him, her expression utterly stricken.

"Oh, Marco," she said breathlessly. "You foolish boy."

"Don't get like that," he said quietly, glancing away from her face. He turned away, kicking snow up into the air and finding himself at a loss. "I'll have you know, they deserved it."

"They?" She hurried after him, holding her skirts as the snow gathered around her ankles. "You're mad. You're absolutely mad. What will father do when he finds out you've been bewitchin'—"

"Hush!" He clamped his hand over her mouth, shooting her a sharp warning look in the grave darkness. "Do _not_ use that word. That's not what this is, Ilse. It's not."

Ilse nodded uncertainly, her warm brown eyes glowing in the darkness. The taste of her was so sweet and warm, he could hardly breathe with her concerned thoughts swimming around in his head, which was pounding so terribly that he was seeing stars streaking across her dark face. He was dizzy and sick from the power he'd used on those stupid little girls, and now he felt sleepy, lethargic, and strangely giddy. He used to be such a nice person. He supposed he should call off the hallucinations. They were just little girls, after all.

He lowered his hand from Ilse's mouth, and he turned away from her again, trudging down the street. She followed somberly.

"So," she said, "might I ask once more what you've done?"

"Ah." Marco tussled his hair, and he grimaced. "Well, I was doin' my rounds earlier, and when I came to the Parris house I found those awful little girls throwing stones at their slave. So I taught them a lesson."

Ilse was very quiet as the snow crunched beneath her feet. They skimmed the outskirts of the forest, and Marco peered into it, daring himself to run into it and never return. It'd be fun. Dangerous, but fun. Drifts of snow blew into their faces, and Ilse's thin fingers closed around his. He glanced at her confusedly. She wasn't tiny, but she wasn't particularly tall either. In the darkness, she looked very childlike and small.

"That was cruel of you," she told him softly.

"They were throwing rocks at that poor woman, Ilse!"

"And you stole into their heads," she hissed, squeezing his fingers until he yelped, "and warped their minds into seeing terrible things. You hurt them, Marco. They're only children, they don't know any better."

"I…" Marco was astonished. He'd not thought of it that way. His compassion turning to cruelty. How strange a thought. He supposed he was remorseful, after all, those girls had been screaming so very loudly. But he wasn't sure how to turn it off. He wished for things in his head, and sometimes they happened. But sometimes it was impossible to turn it off. The tastes in his mouth, the words in his head, they were all impossible, and yet they grow more intense with every passing day. "I'm sorry, Ilse. I didn't think."

"Of course not," she said coolly. "You were thinking of yourself again."

"I was thinking about slavery," he snapped, "and how terrible it is. Imagine how we'd be treated, Ilse, if they saw how different we were."

"We wouldn't be sold into slavery," she said quietly.

"You can't be sure," Marco said, shivering in the frigid air. Every bone in him was frozen, and his teeth were chattering. He wondered how she was fairing in that flimsy woolen dress. He pulled off his surcoat and draped it over her shoulders. She said nothing, slumping into it and staring forward into the great swirling mass of darkness. Their home was not too far from Salem Village.

"I am absolutely sure," she said. "They would kill us, Marco. They'd hang us dead for witches."

He laughed at her, nudging her gently. "That is hardly true," he said. "And even if it was so, is it so worse off than slavery?"

"Marco!" she hissed, her eyes flashing dangerously.

"Oh, don't give me that look." He was freezing, and his head was about to split open. He was so tired and sick, mostly of himself and this power toiling inside his head. He wanted to be rid of this burden, but some part of him loved it too much, and no matter what happened his prayers went unanswered.

"I'm not giving you a look."

"Yes you are," he said, "you're giving me a terrible look, like I've done all the wrong in the world. Well I, personally, find slavery appalling."

"I don't like it either," she sighed, "but don't be so vocal about it, please…"

"Fine."

A gust of wind blew a great burst of snow toward them, and the entire world melted into stark white for just a moment, like a light blinking on, and the floor shifting suddenly as though there'd been a change of existence, different planes overlapping and suddenly the point of view was obscured. What was his name again? Was it Marco?

_No_, his thoughts screamed. _This is all a bad dream. I'm not Marco. I'm not him_.

The scene changed. Marco was being dragged by the front of his shirt across a tiny house, and he was thrown to the floor as Ilse shrunk back in the corner. Her hands were folded over her nose and mouth, her warm brown eyes watery. Marco was on his hands and knees, his head bowed and his shoulders shaking. There was a man standing over him.

"You did it, didn't you?" the man spat. "You little monster. You little demon spawn!" He kicked Marco in the stomach. It hurt so badly, all his muscles tensed up. _I feel that_, a boy lying with a tube in his arm thought. Amongst the sounds of flesh bruising, he heard the soft _beep_ing of his own heartbeat. _Why do I feel that? _

"Father—" Ilse started, lowering her hands, tears glistening in her eyes. Marco looked up at her frantically. _No, Ilse_, he thought at her desperately. _You'll only make him angrier!_

Marco cried out as his father grasped him by the hair and yanked him upright. "You think this is so amusing," his father spat. "You make me sick! God's damned you, and I let you live in my house! How do you repay me for that kindness?" A fist came crashing down upon Marco's ear, and he gasped as his head smashed against the floor, and he saw nothing but great bursting white stars. His head hurt so badly, and it was only getting worse. Every time he tried to use his gift, it hurt to breathe. He tasted things inside his mouth, things he couldn't explain, but they were thoughts of others even still, even after all these years, and he was losing control. He was slipping. He was losing his mind to it.

"I'm sorry," Marco rasped, his breaths shaky and tumbling from his lips unevenly. "I'm sorry!"

"You bewitched the Reverend's girls!" Another kick, another blow, another splitting glint of white in the never ending canvas. "You're demonic! You're Satan's child!"

"No," Marco breathed, a sob escaping his lips, "no, that's not true…"

The blows stopped, and for just a moment Marco thought it might be over. He let his head rest against the uneven floor, his cheek pressing into a fur pelted rug, and he breathed in the smoky scent as the firewood burned, and his thoughts melted into the soft _beep-beep-beep_ of a resounding heartbeat somewhere far away in the distance, a melody playing so wonderfully, a song he could never begin to dream of.

"Take off your shirt."

"Father, no!" Ilse cried, her voice muffled and distant.

"You shut your mouth!" his father snapped. "Or you'll be next!"

_No_, Marco thought numbly, finding himself upright and peeling away his shirt. _Anything but that_.

The first lash was never bad. It stung, and he bit his tongue, staring into the great twinkling stars that clouded his vision, and he thought about running away into the forest again as the second lash came down, smashing into his skin and making him buckle. By the third lash, he screamed, and by the fourth he was weeping, and by the fifth there was blood, and by the sixth he was pleading, and by the seventh he couldn't feel his body anymore, and by the eighth he was hanging suspended as though a specter watching his freckled back turn angry red with long, scraggly lacerations. By the fifteenth, he was lying on the floor, the fur pelt soaking up his blood and tears.

His cheek hit something warm, and he realized Ilse had pulled his head into her lap. She rubbed his cheeks clean of tears, her freckled face warm and bright, and she smiled at him gently. He couldn't help but smile tremulously back in spite of his crippling pain, and he closed his eyes, wishing for nothing but an achingly numb sleep where nothing hurt, where his head would quit pounding, where his mind would stop lashing out into a great and powerful void.

He felt very warm as a golden light drenched over him. Ilse's warm fingers knotted around a net of tiny gold stars that blanketed him, and he blinked confusedly, feeling disoriented and sick. He knew what was happening, but he could never get used to it. Her power was so incredible, and it awed him every day. The light drenched him, and he felt it become him, striking him like a bolt of lightning and pulsing through him until his pain vanished like a fire guttering out.

The world melted into gold, and a boy in a hospital bed began to cry softly in his sleep.

_Just like Historia_…

"We should run."

Ilse had no reply for him as she sat on a log, her short brown hair loose and scraggly against her cheeks. Her bonnet was left discarded beside her, and in her lap rested a small pamphlet of parchment. She was scratching into it with a piece of charcoal, leaving her fingers blackened and smudging her murrey hued dress. Spring had broken, and the forest floor was dewy and bright. Little buds of leaves were sprouting from branches, and Marco plucked an apple blossom, twirling it between his fingers.

"Ilse," he said, tossing the flower at her face. She scowled as it fell into the yellowed pages held in her smock, and she took the blossom and crumpled it in her fingers, hurling it back at him. "We're going to be next. The Williams girl is terrified of me, and it's only a matter of time before she starts pointing at us."

"At you," Ilse corrected, the charcoal dwindling in her fingers. The soft noise of it marking the page was oddly comforting. "You did this, little brother, not I."

"They'll point their fingers at you too, mark me," he said firmly. "You've healed too many sick, acted too conspicuous. We are both damned here, dear sister."

She sighed, never looking up from her pages. "If it comes to it," she said, "I will confess. I will take full responsibility for your follies."

"That's absurd!"

"It's realistic," she snapped, throwing him a disdainful stare. He slumped, feeling foolish and disgusted with himself. Why couldn't he have just left those little girls alone? "Think, Marco. They've been targeting women outright. You are far safer if you just keep to yourself, or perhaps join the hoard. Accuse someone, if need be."

"Now who's gone mad?" Marco was furious. How could she even suggest such a despicable thing? Picking on children, that was one thing, but accusing someone of his crime? That was pure evil! "Nobody deserves to rot for what I've done, Ilse. Least of all you."

"But people are already rotting," she said quietly, her fingers flying across a page. "Those who don't confess hang. They've taken in Dorothy Good, did you know?"

He had not known. "But…" Marco felt a little sick, and he dropped down on the log beside his sister, staring dizzily into the canopy of trees. A rabbit darted in and out of sight. "She is a child… only four!"

"You've made a divine mess, Marco," Ilse said, slamming her notebook shut. "And innocent people are paying the price for it."

His head was pounding, and bile stung the back of his throat, and he felt like crying because he was so sorry for what he'd done, he wished he could take it back. But not even he could manipulate the mind of masses. He was too weak, too foolish, too young to understand the magnitude of his mistake. And suddenly the world was gushing green, and the trees were blooming before his eyes, and he doubled over on the log and vomited onto the forest floor.

_I want to go home_, a boy a long ways away thought, his eyes opening and closing, seeing nothing but green and green and more green_. Eren's eyes are green. He's home, isn't he? I hope he's not too worried about me… I hope… I… wait, where am I…?_

The scene changed in a flash, a crash of thunder shaking the floor and the foundation of the house. Marco was staring at his father, his heart sinking low in his chest as he watched Ilse tuck her parchment into her smock when the Reverend wasn't looking. She raised her head high, and nodded curtly as she was grabbed by the arm and yanked to the door.

"No," Marco blurted, running after them as she was shoved through the threshold. "No!"

"Hush, boy," his father snapped. "They already suspected her. I just gave the evidence."

"You'd accuse your own daughter?" Marco cried, his voice cracking in despair.

"Neither of you are my children," his father said easily. "I've known that for years."

Marco shook his head furiously, hot tears of rage prickling his eyes. He lunged at his father, thinking wild thoughts and jamming them down the man's throat, letting them burn away the skin on the roof of his mouth and scald his tongue. He had his hands around the man's throat, and he was squeezing and tasting the man's utter terror like hot wax melting Marco's teeth, and he laughed at him, laughed at how simple and deluded he was, and he laughed when he was torn off this monster of a man and thrown to the ground, and he laughed into the mud until he was sobbing and laughing both, feeling as thought the world was shattering, because it was quaking all around him with every smash of thunder and spit of lightning, and he could not understand why nothing he did was working, not a thought was going through, and he was choking on his own power now, choking and laughing and sobbing and hating himself a little more for making this nightmare a reality.

They shackled him beside Ilse. They called him a victim, but they shackled him just the same.

"She's bewitched him," they said, clasping irons on his wrists. "He'll have to testify."

She was giving him the most empty look as the rain soaked her warm, freckled skin, and made her look like some hellish angel. He sat, feeling shameful and foolish. His heart had been in the right all along, but he'd been too much of a child to see what wrong he'd truly done.

"I feel sick," he whispered to her.

"Perhaps it's because you've been bewitched," she told him coolly. She turned her face away.

A burst of lightning snarled across the sky, and the world turned a blazing, fiery yellow, startling him into a sob.

_Help_, the boy in the bed thought. _Help me please, I— I think I'm going to die in here_.

The scene changed. He was lying in a cell. The scent of piss hung heavily, hotly in the humid air, from the bucket beside his ratty blanket. Cuffs chafed his wrists and ankles, biting his soft skin until it peeled away to reveal nothing but blood and white bones. He'd been here for… hours, hours, hours… or, perhaps, days…? He didn't know. There was fog misting about his thundering mind. He was sick with knowing the reason why he was lying in this dingy cell, with chains gnawing at his skinny limbs, and he felt sicker with every shaky breath. He inhaled the stale scent of his prison, and considered the possibility that he might just deserve this hell.

_The thing about prison_, he thought, _is that I can reevaluate my life and all my sins_.

"But I've done nothing wrong," he said aloud. His voice pitched against the darkened room, and it squeaked miserably. He stared at the blackened ceiling, and lifted his bound hands toward it. "I do not think I've done any evil, do you?"

The darkness was empty as it watched him. He frowned. Ilse was being awfully quiet.

He turned to look at her, hardly far at all as her shadowy face hung eerily above his, freckles mirroring his own, eyes warm and soft and knowing in spite of their uncertain fates. The darkness made her look sadder than she truly was, which was a compliment to the nature of their prison. The walls were made of timber, and he could almost smell the oak as it scratched against his side. There were no bars on their cell, and it occurred to Marco that he could escape. He sat up, his back cramping from disuse, and his lower abdomen aching terribly from the stiffness of his muscles.

"I believe," Ilse said, with a voice so soft that he almost could not hear her, "that it is our responsibility to take on whichever punishment is bestowed unto us, be it just or no."

Marco snorted in disbelief. "I suppose you think I was wrong," he said loftily, "to do what I did."

"You were misguided," she said, her voice steady. "But I too am at fault. We've been careless, the both of us. This will end here. You must confess."

"I'll confess to nothing," he spat at her, shifting so his chains clinked together ominously. "Nor will you!"

"Hush," his sister said, her shoulders hunching defensively. "I meant nothing by mentioning it. I only think it best for us. If you confess, you live."

"If we confess, there will be nothing left of us," Marco argued, disgusted with her and with him and with this entire godforsaken world they lived in. "And all that aside, I'm no witch, nor are you."

"You sound so certain."

"I am."

She eyed him, and in the darkness her thoughts swam about, and he knew she did not trust a word he said. She trusted him with nothing, not even her full thoughts, and it was harsh and cruel and horrible, but he understood. A witch, perhaps not. But a liar, a miserable little fool? Yes. That was who Marco was. No matter what he tried, he was living this lie for all eternity.

The door to their cell opened, and Marco objected as he was dragged off. They wanted a confession, or an accusation of his dear sister.

He'd happily die before they got that satisfaction.

It seemed, in the end, they were both doomed.

The days grew longer, and their prison held them until they were nothing but skin and bones and gaunt faces. He was separated from his sister, asked to confess, confess, accuse, confess, accuse, but there was nothing Marco would do. He refused. He wanted no part in this, in spite of it all being his fault.

When they reunited again, it was clear it would be for the last time. Marco was not too saddened by the thought. _At least I'll die with Ilse_, he thought somberly as they were dragged to the gallows. They would not be hanged on the scaffold, but by the long, spindly branches of a tree. Ilse was utterly silent as she rubbed her final words into her stained yellow notebook, dirt and blood as her last source of ink.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to her. "I never meant for any of this. I've made such a grave mistake here."

She glanced at him, dirt smearing her caving cheeks, and she smiled genially. "Oh," she said hoarsely, letting the pages of her notebook flutter closed. "Little brother, you have so much to learn."

He wanted to cry. "I suppose," he said faintly, "it's too late for that."

She said nothing, and as Marco prodded at her mind, he found it closed to him. The empty achiness of knowing he was not welcome was hard to grasp, but he accepted it as he accepted his fate. He'd been doomed from the start, and this was a good end to a pitiful story. He and Ilse no longer had any cause to suffer for their natural abnormalities. They would be free, soon.

Was that what he wanted? He couldn't be sure. He hadn't any choice in the matter, so he supposed it was best to let his destiny unfold.

"At least we're together," he told his sister feebly. She turned her face to him, and she nodded firmly. He was startled when she shoved her notebook into the waistband of his trousers, her eyes darting to the back of the driver of their wobbly cart. It had stopped. They were here.

"Marco," she said, smiling up at him feebly. "You mustn't use your gift. It brings nothing but grief."

He'd been considering using trickery to get them out of this mess, but he supposed it would only worsen the situation. And so he nodded, his eyes widening as he was yanked from the cart, his legs too weak and shaky to hold him upright. He was absorbing all the thoughts from all the people in the crowd, the nasty thoughts of hatred and disgust that bled into his mouth, thick and soupy, and he began to breathe heavily as he twisted his head around to peer at his poor sister.

She was smiling at him. How strange, to be smiling at your own execution. Marco couldn't help but smile back, even as he was shoved and mocked and thrown upon a barrel, steadied by rough hands and manhandled like he was a chicken on the chopping block.

"Ilse," he said quietly as she was hefted up onto the barrel next to him, her dirty face unbearably calm. "Ilse… I'm sorry… I'm sorry brought this onto us, I—"

"Stop," she said. There was a crowd cheering for their dangling bodies, but Marco couldn't bring himself to look at the sneering faces. He felt their hatred bubble in his throat, and he thought he might puke right then and there, out of fear, perhaps, or sorrow, or grief. This was all his fault. He'd done this terrible thing. "If this is the last time I hear your voice, I haven't any want for your apologies."

He smiled at her tremulously, tears welling in his eyes, and he took her hand. "What are suitable last words, then?" he whispered, his fingers shaking against hers as their crimes were declared for the entirety of Salem to hear. He turned his eyes out to the crowd, and he choked on an angry sob. "Ilse, your only crime… was to be born my sister…"

"My greatest gift," she admitted, squeezing his fingers tightly in her sweaty fist, a noose dropping over her head, "and my greatest curse. I'm glad. For all your faults, little brother, you were… the only thing about this wretched life… that I found savory."

"Yes," he agreed, breathless as a rope came scratching against his throat. They had not yet tightened the nooses. _There's still time_, he thought. _We can still escape_. "I'm so glad. You've always made me feel so… so blessed, in spite of everything, I—"

"Marco," Ilse whispered, "will you forgive me?"

They tightened the noose around her throat. She was staring straight ahead, tears slipping against her grimy, freckled cheeks. His sister. His lovely, angelic, divine gift of a sister. How could anyone think she was something demonic, when all she ever did was heal? Her gift was so much more than his could ever be. _I wish I'd been better_, he thought, stricken as the noose was tightened around his throat, and his breath caught as the cheers thickened around them, and the thoughts came flooding into him to die, die, die, _**die**_!

_You've never done anything wrong_, he thought to her reassuringly, holding her hand and closing his eyes. _Elizabeth Langner. You are the kindest person on this earth. And without you, I doubt the sun will shine another day. They don't know what they are losing_.

He heard her quiet sob, nearly inaudible in the rush of the jeers for their broken necks. "Thank you," she whispered. "And… when the sun rises tomorrow… remember that… remember… and forgive me, please… forgive me…"

Marco opened his eyes as the barrels were kicked out from under them, and the breath was knocked out of him, and her hand nearly slipped from his, but somehow she kept holding on. His eyes were wide, and his mind was reeling, and the rope was clawing into his neck, leaving him grappling for air as he kicked and thrashed, his fingers sweaty against hers. It was as though he was falling apart at the seams while the entire world dug into him and began to tear him apart like hungry jackals, words like teeth gnawing at his brain and cutting viciously into his throat.

_Ilse_, he thought through the blinding haze, through the biting pain. He could see golden stars leaping across his vision. His skin was warm, and his body was light, and he was staring into a great threaded snarl of brilliant, seeping gold. His eyes widened, and in the rush of his blood in his ears, he heard the screams, the panic, the utter terror. _Ilse, what are you doing?_

_I've thought about this over and over_, she told him, her thoughts choking him more than any noose as his fingers slipped from hers, and he struggled for breath. Everything was dripping gold. Everything was drenched, and everything, his bones and his skin and his very heart was captured inside a cocoon of golden threads. _I love you far too much to let this be your fate. I could not live on. I could not possibly go on, knowing you could have gone freely if not for your foolish wish to die with me. That is why I choose to be selfish here. Marco… you will live._

_No_, he thought, struggling for breath, particles flying through him and around him and stitching into his very skin, melting into his soul. Gold and gold and gold, blinding him heartily and choking him with spindly fingers. Gold. His life was molten gold, and he was bleeding through the cracks of the universe, watching it burst in a thousand streaks of golden stars. He was numb to this pain. _No, please, no_…

_Live_, Ilse thought to him, ribbons of gold lacing through his viscera, combing through his veins. The noose around his neck was digging further into his throat, and he was gagging, his feet kicking wildly in the golden storm. It was like a dance, his body swinging to the rhythm of some golden, wild tune, and he was breathless and teary eyed from the beauty and brutality of it.

_No!_ Marco choked on the thought. He tried to bat away the pain of it, the golden ribbons and stars, but all he could do was struggle at the noose and bathe in the light of his life being regenerated over and over. _No, please!_

_Live!_

He saw nothing but sweet, mellifluous gold, and it was killing him as it revived him. He hated this. He wanted none of this! _Ilse, no, please, please, please!_ He could not breathe, but he could not die, and he could hardly feel her presence beside him, hardly taste her thoughts as they all blotted out like stars dying one by one. _I want to be with you! I don't want to live on without you, I don't want that burden! Please, stop! Let me die! All I want is to die with you!_

_**Live!**_

The golden light exploded around him. And then, in a blink, it was gone. Absorbed into him, and flooding him with energy, and he was half-drunk and half-choking on it. Then he recalled he was still hanging from a tree. He was staring down at no one. No one was left. They'd all fled, he knew, out of fear. Real witches in Salem. Who would've thought?

_Ilse_, he thought, swinging painfully, struggling against his noose. No reply. And so, he stopped struggling, and listened. His own ragged breath met his ears. But Ilse was silent. The creak of the rope stretching taut against the tree branch was the only sound from her. He felt her limp body swaying from side to side. He could not stand it any longer. He wanted to die with her. He let his body go limp.

He did die with her. His heart stopped. It stuttered and started up again. He hung with her, staring into nothing, and hating life with every moment that passed. Hours met him harshly, and through that time he came to many different conclusions. He had to have been gravely misguided to deserve such suffering as to be hanged and to suffocate and to awaken over and over and over again, like some sick and twisted game God had played upon his worthless existence.

Night fell, and Marco expected the world to melt into black forever. He expected life to stop, all life everywhere, because his sister had been ripped from the world. And it was all his fault. He'd done this. He could have stopped it. Why hadn't he? Why was it not within his power to control a mob? Even in the night, as he suffocated and fell into death and awoke in terror of the terrible dream he'd had, only to find himself being strangled by a noose and bumping into the chilly corpse of his sister hanging beside him, he thought that he could have done something, anything, to bring them all to their knees.

But the sun rose on the morrow, somehow, someway. He'd died a hundred times in the night, and he was still praying it was all a bad dream. He died once more, watching silvery dawn light poor across the grassy hill. He thought it looked fabricated. He let himself melt into darkness.

Armin woke up choking.

He bolted upright, feeling something around his neck, and he clawed at it furiously, his heart ramming in his chest, and he heard a furious rumbling of beeps_, beep-beep-beep-beep_, a chatter in his ear that would not go away, and he tore at the rope around his neck, hissing and gasping and hardly breathing as it tangled around him. He wanted to die, but nothing was letting him, and he didn't understand! He didn't understand anything! How could he be so foolish? Wasn't everyone always telling him how brilliant he was?

How could someone so brilliant be tricked so easily?

He was slammed back into his bed as he thrashed, rasping and choking on his noose. "Help," he croaked, his eyes finding a pair of blue ones. "I'm… gonna die in here…"

"Nonsense," a familiar voice said, readjusting the noose so it wasn't around his neck, but prodding his nostrils. "You just need to calm down. Rest."

Armin sank into his bed, trying to figure out where he was and what was happening. He groaned, moving his hand shakily to run through his hair. He was unbearably thankful when he felt the fluffy yellow strands. He'd thought for sure they'd shaved his head while he'd been sleeping, but it appeared not. He stared at his wizened little hands, watching his blue veins spider web beneath his papery skin, and he wondered what he must look like. There was a tube attached to his right hand. There was fresh air being pumped into his nose.

Armin brushed his fingers against the noose on his face, and found a plastic tube that ran from his nostrils to behind his ears, and then down his neck. He stared somberly ahead of him, feeling more alert now. Reiner was standing beside him, holding his shoulders down and looking concerned.

"I see now," he said hoarsely. His voice was like razor blades against his throat. "Hello, Reiner…"

"Hi, man," Reiner whispered.

"I…" Armin held his head, but surprisingly it did not ache. "I'm sorry, I'm a little… out of it, um… where am I?"

"We relocated you very recently," that familiar voice said, "when Dr. Jaeger declared you stable enough."

Armin glanced up at Marco, feeling bored of him and yet, somehow, pitying him. _Wasn't that just a dream, though?_ Armin thought numbly.

_No_, Marco thought to him, a ribbon of a connection forged between them without thought. Armin winced. _That was all real, Armin. Would you like me to explain?_

"Yes," Armin blurted. He glanced at Reiner, who was still holding his shoulders. Reiner let go quickly, looking guilty and sad. Armin felt numb to that too. "What… what am I drugged up on…?"

"A lot of painkillers," Marco admitted, his palm resting on the crown of Armin's head. "Amongst other things. But don't worry, it shouldn't affect you too much. Your powers will be a lot weaker, but that's a good thing at the moment. You're far too unstable for your own or anyone else's good."

"Um…" Armin sighed, glancing at the oxygen tank resting beside his bed. "Oh…"

"Reiner," Marco said, "why don't you leave us for a little while? Armin and I have a lot to talk about."

"Okay…" Reiner looked apprehensive, and his eyes flashed to Armin's desperately. "But… just don't forget about Annie, okay?"

"Never," Marco said earnestly, staring into Reiner's eyes. "She's just as important to me as she is to you."

Armin's lips quirked upward.

_Liar_, he thought, settling against his pillow. Marco did not react, but Armin knew. He could sense that Marco had heard him.

"Sit tight, Armin," Reiner said, throwing him an encouraging smile.

"I'm not exactly in any position to go anywhere, unfortunately."

Reiner grinned then, and shook his head in disbelief. "Man," he said, "you're a trooper."

"No," Armin said. "I genuinely would not mind dying right now, except I'm hooked up to a nasal cannula, and I'm so drugged up that I don't feel like ripping my hair out for once, but really the only thing keeping me from tearing off all this life support stuff is the fact that I cannot possibly do that kind of damage to my family. It has nothing to do with my own inner strength, just the knowledge that my death would hurt too many people I love." Armin scratched his hand irritably. "This thing is itchy."

"Please don't do that," Marco said, taking Armin's wrist. Armin was relieved to see he was wearing gloves.

"Also," Armin said, "logically, attempting to take myself off life support would fail, since I'm not strong enough to fight either of you, clearly, and my powers are a little mute at the moment. So I guess I'm stuck living. For now."

"Why are you so set on dying?" Reiner asked, sounding appalled. "Dude, you… you beat it once. You could do it again. I know you could."

"It's not about whether I think I can or not," Armin said dazedly. "I believe my death is the best possible outcome for me. I'll hurt less people if I'm dead."

"Oh, come on, Armin," Marco sighed. "You don't really believe that, do you?"

Armin glanced up at Marco, his eyes heavily lidded, but he figured that'd be enough of a straight look for Marco to understand how unbelievably stupid that question was. "I believe it solely because you exist," he said, staring into Marco's warm eyes. He smiled. He didn't know what it looked like, but it felt wormy on his lips.

"Reiner," Marco said, staring right back into Armin's eyes. "Why don't you leave?"

"Uh…"

"Now."

And, unsurprisingly, Reiner obeyed. He was gone, and Armin was left with his bed and his heart monitor and his cannula. "I didn't know my asthma was this bad," Armin found himself joking.

"You're an odd duck, aren't you?" Marco sat at the edge of Armin's bed, watching him with a sad smile. "I've dealt with this dry humor before, of course. Does it make it hurt less, joking about your own imminent death?"

Armin smiled dully. "Hurt?" He shook his head. "I'm like… literally begging to die…? I don't understand that question."

Marco watched him. It was an eerie sort of stare, the kind of a scientist observing a rat in a maze. He was smiling with vague interest, curiosity sparking in his warm brown eyes. "Amazing," he said. "I honestly can't tell if you're bugging out of your mind from the drugs, or if you just like to tease me."

"Wow," Armin said, his eyebrows rising. "You and me both. Does this place have wifi?"

"You ask the real deep questions."

"That _was _a real question." Was Marco mocking him? Or was he mocking Marco? He didn't even know anymore. It was incredibly possible he was "bugging". "Buggin'. Like, I know that means stoned, which, yes, probably, but I feel like I'm glitching. Like, big time. Can that even happen to people? Can people glitch…?" Armin sunk into the warmth of his bed. "I'm hungry. Did you do something to make the nausea go away?"

"Yes," Marco said. "It's called an antiemetic. One of the many miraculous drugs of this age." He stood up and passed Armin a tray with nothing but a small container of clear soup and a juice box. Armin wasn't so far off into his own mind to misunderstand why this was all he was being fed. No matter how hungry he was, he'd driven himself to the point of starvation. He could not possibly eat a large meal, or even possibly something with substance. He'd end up puking it up. So he sat up, crossing his legs to balance the tray, and he began spoon the soup into his mouth. He was thankful that it was lukewarm. Hot soup would not be kind on his stomach.

"You kissed me," Armin recalled, feeling a little disgusted as he watched the broth dribble off his spoon.

"I did."

"Twice."

"Guilty."

"You pretended to be a hallucination of Eren," Armin said flatly, "and you kissed me like that."

"It's a very good way to relay information."

"If you ever touch me again," Armin said, staring into Marco's brilliantly warm face, "I will make it the most agonizing hell for you imaginable."

He grimaced in response, and he shrugged. "Fair enough," he said. "I really am very sorry about all that, though."

"Yeah, save it." Armin forced himself to eat the soup, even though the recollection of the stolen kisses had made him feel sick again. He supposed if he really wanted to die, he should really stop eating altogether. He found he didn't have it in him. Starving was terrible. It was hollow and achy, and he'd had enough of those feelings to last him ten lifetimes. "If I told Eren about it, he'd destroy you."

"Most likely," Marco admitted. "I'm not really that strong, physically. Eren could actually quite easily rip me apart. It wouldn't permanently kill me, of course."

"Truly unfortunate." Armin swallowed the broth, feeling dizzy and sick. He hated this so much. "I… why Eren?"

"I tried Annie first," Marco sighed. "You didn't reciprocate well."

"What?" Armin dropped his spoon, feeling an edge of panic as he thought back to his kiss with Annie, which he had been rather happy with all things considering until this moment. How? How could that have possibly been Marco?

"Oh, not the one where she froze you." Marco waved offhandedly. "Don't look so scared. You actually did kiss Annie at one point. Which, honestly, surprised me. I really did think you had feelings for Eren."

"I don't…" Armin was so confused. "I don't… really have feelings like that… for anyone, I think…? I don't know. I never thought about it before. I don't have the time. None of us have the time. Wait, so when you were pretending to be Annie…?" Armin had to think very hard to recall which kiss he was talking about. His eyes widened, and he leaned back in alarm. "You tried to drown me!"

"Oh, it wasn't real." Marco was grimacing, however, rubbing his cheek sheepishly. "I wanted to give you a hint about my past. In connection with yourself and Historia, of course."

Ah. Yes, right. He'd nearly forgotten. "You mean," Armin said dazedly, "because we have the same powers… as you and your sister…?"

"Yes, precisely!" Marco clapped his hands together, and Armin felt the urge to hurl his spoon at him. "It really is amazing. I wasn't sure if it would manifest, but when it did, I was so happy!"

"You're fucking insane." Armin took a spoonful of broth into his mouth, and swallowed thickly. "Don't go near my sister. She's got enough issues without you going on and adding to her depression."

"Firstly, I don't believe insane is the right word for me," Marco sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "I mean, like, honestly? Yes, I do a lot of things to fuck with you guys. I don't mean any harm, though."

"You tried," Armin said faintly, "to _drown _me."

"And Mikasa saved you."

"Because she heard me screaming!"

"No," he said, staring into Armin's eyes, "because I told her you were in trouble."

"I think you're just lying."

He shrugged, and leaned back on the bed. "Think what you want," he said. "I've never been out to get you all to like me. I understood that'd be impossible. I'm… not a truly likable person… no matter how much I try, or who I try to be. Marco Bodt's personality was… closer to the real me than you might think, but he was still such an amazing lie…" Marco rubbed his face tiredly. "I don't… expect you to understand."

Armin didn't understand at all. But he found himself intrigued.

He set his tray aside, and he watched Marco with his shoulders bent. "Tell me," he said. Marco looked surprised, and he bolted upright eagerly. "Don't look at me like that. I still hate you. A lot. But I really want to know." Armin cocked his head, letting his hair curl around his cheeks, and he smiled. "How did you become such an incredible monster?"

Marco smiled faintly back. "Well," he said. "You know the gist of it. I was hanged with my sister. She used her power to give me everlasting life, and I was forced to dig her a grave when they cut us down the next day. They were so terrified of me, they just let me do whatever I pleased. I made sure Ilse and I were erased from historical record, of course."

"Twenty one hangings," Armin said distantly. "I see."

"It's terrible to be immortal, Armin," Marco said weakly, shifting his position so he was sitting cross-legged across from Armin, leaning forward as though they were close friends sharing their deepest of secrets. Perhaps to Marco, that was what this was. "Nothing feels right. There's… there's something missing. Always. It hurts to be alive."

"Yes," Armin said quietly. "That I can relate to."

"I'm sorry about the tumor," Marco blurted, leaning further forward. Armin sunk back into his pillow, feeling a little horrified at his close proximity. Marco seemed to see his error, because he leaned back again. "No, seriously. I never wanted any of you to be sick."

"Is that why you sat back," Armin murmured, "and let me slowly wither away, pretending to be hallucinations and making me think I'm going insane when in all actuality I'm just dying?"

"I was trying to prevent the truth from coming out!" Marco groaned, and he rubbed his face tiredly. "You're so much happier when you don't know the magnitude of your conditions!"

"I thought I was losing my mind," Armin said faintly. "You let me think that. Hell, you encouraged it! If I had known from the beginning that I'd been sick, do you honestly think I'd be as lost and unstable as I am right now? You only did it because you thought it'd be amusing!"

"Fair enough," Marco sighed, "I did think it was amusing. I'm sorry. I just… I was so curious about how your mind worked…"

"You could have been honest," Armin said sharply. He breathed in through his nose to calm himself, and he was suddenly very thankful for the cannula. "If you had just approached me like a normal person, and let me know you were telepath too, I would have accepted you just fine! Your mistake, Marco, was keeping so many secrets. How could anyone ever trust you? You're a terrible person, and you've done terrible things!"

"You're no different," he said, staring vacantly into Armin's eyes. "That's what I noticed while observing you. We're just the same."

"We really aren't."

"You and I are manipulators," Marco said firmly. "It's natural, of course, with a power like ours."

"At least you're not playing it like you're the nicest person ever," Armin mumbled, turning his face into his pillow. He missed Erwin. He missed everyone. He wanted to go home so badly, his chest ached. He felt tears prickling his eyes.

"I told you already. I know I'm hard to like. I just… I'd hoped…" Marco groaned again, and flopped onto his back. Armin glanced at him. He was so hard to understand. "Do you know why I did all of this?"

Armin had been thinking about it. He'd drawn his own conclusions, painted a picture in his head, and even still he was grasping at straws. "You were lonely," he said quietly. "You wanted… a family, I guess. One that you could have forever."

Marco smiled at him. "You're amazing," he admitted.

"It wasn't hard to figure out." He toyed with the loose linen fabric of the blanket draped over him. "So… you took sick kids… and volunteers… and you experimented on them until you got the results you wanted."

"I didn't get the results I wanted," Marco said. "Only one of you ended up immortal."

Armin bolted upright, staring at Marco quizzically. "No," he said. "That's not true. Eren and Annie—"

"Were incredibly successful results of cell regeneration." Marco shrugged, still smiling his wan little smile. "Not immortality. They can still die."

"Then…?" Armin had to think for a moment. _Immortality_, he thought. _That would mean… a perfect body, right…? No imperfections, no_… He suddenly felt very sick. He looked at Marco dimly as he shook his head, not able to believe in this terrible, terrible reality. "I'm begging you," he said, his shoulders shaking in despair, "stay away from Historia."

"You and Ymir," Marco sighed. "What do you see in that girl, anyway?"

"She's my sister!" Armin was so angry, but only mostly because he hadn't seen it before. "God, can't you… can't you just leave us alone?"

"I tried that," Marco said darkly, sitting up and staring into Armin's eyes. "You ended up getting a brain tumor again. So, no. I don't think I'm going to leave you alone anymore."

"But I don't even care, I just—!" Armin needed to rein in his emotions. This was getting him nowhere. "I…"

Marco glanced at Armin, and he shook his head. "Maybe we can compromise," Marco offered. "Your friends will find you eventually, but at the moment… I'm your best chance at survival. So, here's the deal. I keep you, Ymir, and Historia. The others are free to go as long as they come back every six months or so for screenings."

Armin could not reply. Because it… wasn't a bad deal, really. Most of them were free, and it made sense that they would have to get screenings. It was… what he'd been so afraid of when he'd realized how sick he was. If he was sick again, what about everyone he loved? One check up every six months wouldn't be bad, and… Armin doubted he'd live that long anyway.

But, then again… Historia would be forced to live out her eternity with Marco.

"Not happening," Armin said.

Marco shrugged. "It's not really your choice," he said. "I was just giving you a heads up. If it were up to you, you'd just go home and let yourself die. That's not going to happen. I've worked too hard to keep you all alive, and I swear you're going to live."

"Have your sister," Armin said, "have _me_. Just let everyone else go!"

"Please stop yelling," Marco sighed. He swung his leg idly off the end of the bed. "I understand it's difficult, but—"

"You don't understand anything," he spat, tears springing into his eyes. "You're never going to die. But I… I don't have much time left—"

"Oh, don't say that…"

"Shut up!" His tears welled over, and splashed against the tube that was fastened against his nose. "You haven't had to own up to your own mortality in over three hundred years! And I— I'm stuck dying in here, alone, when all I want is to be free of this! You don't care about any of us at all! You're so selfish! All you truly want is to stave off your loneliness using those of us who can't refuse!"

Marco stared at him. "Are you done?" he asked, tilting his head.

"No!" Armin was furious, and he was sick to death of these games. "Stop this! Stop all of this! We'll accept you, gladly, if you just shut all of this down! Stop pretending, stop lying. Just be you! For once, just be yourself!" Marco looked so startled, and Armin wasn't sure why. Were his words striking a chord with him, or was he simply spouting nonsense? He was so numb to the world, he didn't even know. "Why don't you come with me back home? Maybe… maybe if we just explain—"

"It won't go over well," Marco said. "Your sentiment is very touching, but I've done too much damage."

"Yeah, well, that's your own fault." Armin inhaled sharply, and he wondered if the oxygen was helping him at all, because he felt as though he couldn't breathe. "You did all of this… just so you wouldn't have to be alone anymore, right?"

Marco stared at him. If he was reading his thoughts, then he'd know how genuine Armin was. He was too exhausted to think up a solution that would thwart Marco. His silence was enough to give Armin the confirmation he needed.

"Then stop," he said desperately, his voice breaking apart from the tears. "Stop trying to help us. Just… for once… let us help _you_."

Marco looked away. He stood, smiling down at Armin, and he saw that there were tears in his eyes as well.

"Thank you," Marco said gently. "You have no idea how much that means to me."

_Not enough_, Armin thought miserably, burying his teary face into his bed as Marco turned toward the door. _Clearly_.

He was left to listen to the sound of his own heartbeat and his sobs muffled by the soft, squishy fabric of his pillow.

Later, Reiner and Bertholdt came to visit him. They had flowers, which was a nice touch, but Armin told them to go away anyway. He wasn't in the mood to talk to them. Bertholdt was pretty eager to leave, but Reiner forced him to stay. He sat down at the edge of Armin's bed, and he stared at him apologetically.

"I'm sorry things turned out like this," he said.

"I'm sorry your procedure seemed to have impaired your hearing." Armin stared at his oxygen tank, wondering what Eren would think of it. _He'd probably want to decorate it, or something fun like that_, he thought, nearly smiling.

"Marco can be really weird," he sighed. "Like, it's so hard to tell what's real with him, you know?"

"Trust me," Armin murmured, "I know."

"Come on, Reiner," Bertholdt said, sounding stressed. "He really doesn't want to talk to us."

Armin found himself sitting up, rubbing his head irritably. His headache had not returned yet, but someone had come in and injected something into his drip, so he was pretty sure he'd gotten even more drugged since Marco had left.

"He tortured Annie," he reminded them, pulling his knees to his chest. The world felt so muted, and he almost missed the sting of emotions that flooded onto his tongue, the rush of words, the thoughts streaming through him, thoughts that could not be his own. Was this how normal people felt all the time? Dull and lethargic and empty? He could not breathe, and he could not think, and it was so jarring, because he felt as though he was peering through a foggy glass into a great sea of unknown territory.

"Yeah…" Reiner rubbed the back of his neck. "I seriously don't know with that one."

"Ymir thinks it's because he's in love with Jean," Bertholdt said quietly.

Armin perked up at that. "What?" he asked flatly. Bertholdt blinked rapidly, and he shook his head.

"O-oh," he gasped, "ignore me, I—"

"No," Armin said, leaning forward eagerly. "That. Tell me more about that."

"Why?" Reiner snorted. "So you can blackmail him?"

"I like to keep my options open, Reiner." Armin stared at Bertholdt expectantly. "Well? Are you going to tell me?"

"Oh…" Bertholdt looked uncomfortable as he glanced toward the door. "I really shouldn't have… I mean, he'll be angry if I…"

"I'll deal with Marco," Armin said firmly. "Better yet, Ymir will deal with Marco. She seems to be the only person here capable of knowing how to act around him."

"True," Reiner said. "But she's also like, his sister, or something weird like that."

"Do you know how that's even possible?" Armin asked, finding that he was intrigued by these two. They knew something, and he'd rather get them talking then have to speak to Marco again.

"How Ymir's his sister?" Reiner asked, blinking at Armin curiously.

"She's not," Bertholdt said softly. "Not really."

"Then what relates them?" Armin asked eagerly.

"Well…" Bertholdt sighed, and he wrung his hands nervously. "Okay, it's really weird, but… it was some kind of primitive cloning process."

"A clone of Ilse," Armin said. "Yes, okay. But…?"

"None of us really know the details," he said earnestly, staring at Armin with large eyes. He looked very honest, but Armin couldn't be certain. "Ymir definitely isn't a genetic identical to Ilse, though."

"Yeah, she's like, Mexican, or something," Reiner said.

Bertholdt glanced at Reiner, and sighed. "Or something…" he muttered, shaking his head. "But, um… from what I know, at least, Ymir was raised like a replacement for Ilse. That's… that's why she's kinda… messed up about the entire thing, I guess… he made her go by the name Ilse and everything."

Armin grimaced, taking up fistfuls of his blanket and glowering at his knees. "He's a creep," Armin said firmly.

"He's had it pretty rough," Reiner said. "I mean… would you wanna live forever all alone?"

_No_, Armin thought, _I want to die right now_. But that was pretty unlikely, and also selfish. "Even if I could live forever," Armin said, staring vacantly ahead, "I'd never resort to the methods Marco has used to keep us alive."

"You use pretty unethical methods yourself," Reiner pointed out.

Armin turned his face to Reiner's, his tired eyes watching very carefully for some kind of crack in his severe features. He tucked his hair behind his ears, feeling the soft wave of it against his fingers and wondering if they'd bathed him. He didn't want to think about it.

"I wish I'd died five years ago," Armin told him quietly.

"No," Reiner said, his face crumpling, "you don't."

Armin wasn't sure if he liked that Reiner was telling him what he wanted, especially because he couldn't tell if it was true. The world was abuzz, muted colors and muted feelings, and he was stuck thinking about suffocating over and over and over again. There was no remorse from nature. He let his fingers glide over the nasal cannula resting against his cheek, and he wondered what would happen if he took it out. Of course, the effect would not be instantaneous, even if he managed to have an asthma attack right on the spot.

"You used to say…" Armin blinked dazedly. "You used to think… about how we didn't exist in the eyes of gods… what did that mean?"

Reiner averted his gaze. If Armin focused he could hear the buzzing of his thoughts as they flew from his head and ricocheted off the walls. Armin's fortune was suspended in midair, for he had no idea if he liked the absence of coherent thought. It was all rushing through him, never taking purchase inside his head. He was drowning in the distant rumble of words, and in the cacophony of silence.

"We're abominations," Reiner whispered. "This… is something I've accepted. We don't exist, or we shouldn't exist. It's… all the same, I guess."

Bertholdt was bowing his head. Armin felt dizzy and sick, despite the drugs that were supposed to keep him from feeling these sorts of abnormal things. His nausea was returning, and he was furious with the world, and with himself for being so easily tricked.

"You want to die too," Armin said, cocking his head. Reiner glanced at him, his eyes flashing wide. And Armin smiled in resignation. "Ah. I see. We are all completely… and utterly hopeless."

They bowed their heads.

Neither of them disagreed.

* * *

_For all I've hinted at the Salem Witch Trials thing, no one actually guessed that bit. I've been hinting at that for awhile, clearly._

_Uh, otherwise, p basic chapter? Yeah, just more explanations and character dynamics. _


	32. eternal light

**lux aeterna**

**salem, oregon**

_a.d. iii non. nov., 2766 A.U.C._

Her chest ached. There were particles bouncing off her ribs, light as feathers but stinging like needles, puncturing her fleshy innards and leaving her dizzy and sick. She'd been through this before, once. It had been worse then. Now it was just a dull sort of prickle, a sharp increase in the way her senses reached. She could feel every breath exhaled from the lips of every person around her, taste the sweat licking up the back of Eren's neck as he dropped beside her.

"Hey," he said, peering at her face. She leaned carefully away from him, her breath rattling inside her chest. She was hopelessly lost inside her own head, and she was scared of what might happen if she didn't catch up with herself. There was something toiling inside her, something that was eating her alive, sending her into a frenzied high. Power was slithering around her bones and crushing them with coiled muscles. She took a deep breath, and buried her face in her hands. "Hey, hey!"

She flinched away from this hand as it landed on his shoulder.

"Don't," she blurted, her nails dragging from her forehead over her eyelids, and scraping her lips. "Don't touch me, okay?"

"Okay," Eren said easily. "Just… okay, deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Like that."

She was angry at him for being near her, and yet she was doing as he said, inhaling sharply through her nose and exhaling shakily from her lips. Tears stung her eyes. Was this a panic attack? She was shaking so badly, and her blood was pumping in her ears, little pinpricks of power stabbing into her heart like some twisted form of acupuncture.

She slid her hands up and knotted her fingers through her hair, smoothing it back and heaving a great gulp of air as tears splashed against her flushed cheeks. Eren was watching her with heavily lidded eyes, his brow knitted and his shoulders slumped, and she wanted to smash her fist into his face, but she couldn't move because she was too terrified she might accidentally tear apart his life with just a flick of her wrist.

"Did I…?" She swallowed the phlegm caught in her throat, her voice thin and reedy as it caught onto the heavy antiseptic air. "Did I do the right thing…? Do you think…?"

"Absolutely," Eren said firmly. She stared at him, tears streaking her face, and she watched his blazing eyes as they watched hers, fervent and assured, as though he could tell the sky it was the earth and the earth that it must shatter. "He deserved it. He… he treated all of us like scum, especially Levi and Mikasa. He was a disgustin' piece of shit human being, and you know what, Historia?" Eren put his hand on her head, and he ruffled her hair between is long fingers. "You probably just saved a whole lot of people. So, don't beat yourself up over it, okay? It was a good thing."

_It doesn't feel good at all_, she thought, her stomach squirming with all the power bubbling up inside her, life taken and swimming through her bloodstream like some tickly parasite gnawing at her muscles. She didn't want him to know that, though. She just leaned into his touch, imagining that everything was okay, and that she was normal, and that she could just enjoy the feeling of someone mussing her hair affectionately.

"How's Levi?" she asked hoarsely. She wasn't sure if she cared, but it seemed appropriate to ask, since she'd only just killed his father.

"He's…" Eren grimaced, his eyes lowering to the floor uncertainly. "Uh, he's Levi."

That didn't make her feel any better. She was tossing up the thoughts of possibly just running away, just forgetting about all of this nonsense, but she didn't know where she'd go, and she didn't know what she'd do. She couldn't die. She couldn't do anything worth anything, but she couldn't die, so she was stuck in this world until… what? What would be the end of her?

"I was dead," she said quietly.

Eren shrugged. He shrugged, and she felt her anger spike, because how could he be so nonchalant about this? Didn't he care? _Do I even care? _she found herself wondering, dizzy and sick of herself, and of the feeling of life swirling inside her chest, dusty sands falling through her rib cage and clotting her arteries.

"I was really scared," Eren admitted. She looked at him sharply, her hair flying into her eyes, and she parted it quickly, finding herself alert and at attention.

"You were scared?" she asked, her voice feeble in her shock. Scared? Of what? Of her?

"Yeah," he said, smiling at her grimly. "I mean, I thought for sure you were dead. You… you looked really dead, y'know? But I've gone through all that stuff before, so no biggie."

"No biggie," she repeated dully. Yeah, that didn't seem to make her feel any better at all. She sighed, slumping in her seat and watching her cloak fall around her knees. They'd left the hospital on account of the fact that someone was dead because of them, and they'd blown a hole through one of the rooms, but at the moment they were all a bit scattered. Sasha and Connie were talking down their parents, Levi was off somewhere with Mikasa, Jean was smoking on a bench not too far away, and Erwin had gone to call Hange.

"Don't think about it too much," Eren said. "That's how I got over it. It's just… it's not important. Who cares if you can't die?"

"A lot of people?" Historia wasn't sure what he was trying to do for her. She wished it could work, but she was feeling too lousy, and her mind was on a rush from consuming the aura of another person. Her thoughts were in jumbles. She wished someone who understood was here, like Armin or Ymir. But she was with Eren. And he wasn't so bad, not really. He just… didn't get it.

"Okay, well," he said with a huff, "I ain't one of 'em. Okay?"

"Uh… okay?" She glanced at him, and turned her face forward. They were sitting in a mall parking lot. She was struggling with the thing toiling inside her, and struggling with her own soul as it struggled and struggled and struggled on. This was the worst.

She was plagued by thoughts of death and dust, and her body was too strong for her weak heart to stand. She wanted to be rid of this thing, once and for all. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that Armin was on his way to his death when he deserved… so much more… and she was forced to live, when all she wanted was to let this power die with her.

She was too cowardly for such immense power. She was too frightened to deal with all these things at once. She just wanted to curl up and cry, but she couldn't because she was already such a huge burden. She didn't deserve this. She didn't deserve to be the powerful, immortal one, not when there were so many nice, kind people who had so much more to offer the world!

"I feel like I'm falling apart," she whispered, her shoulders shaking as she stared down at her twitching fingers. Her heart was rumbling like a volcano about to spit ash into a sweet blue sky, turning fluffy white clouds ugly and caked with gray and black. She was a bomb inside a glass container, and she was about to smash the entire world into pieces, taking her pretty exterior down with it. She wanted nothing but to lay down and let the world crumble beneath her.

"You're just wallowin' again."

"I killed someone!" She heard her own voice, thick and distant, a crash of thunder and a screech of a dying cat. "I'm allowed to hate myself for that!"

"Shut up!" Eren leapt to his feet, startling her. "Jeez, Historia, get yourself fuckin' together! Everyone's done bad shit! Hell, that guy you killed was like, an assassin, or some shit like that, so you know what?" He straightened up and smashed his fist into his palm. "Fuck him. You're a fuckin' hero. You did what you had to."

She was breathing so heavily, and she could feel Jean's eyes on her from a little ways away, and some other people were staring as well, and she could taste their lives like sparks of fireworks trailing through the air and exploding in her eyes, spitting explosions and crashing into her chest, toying with her mind and stealing her breath. She saw golden sparks flooding the air, sailing and guttering, spitting and drizzling, fire like water all around her, and she heard the hiss like ocean waves across palisades. Drums were thundering inside her skull, bass chords striking the grooves of her brain.

She flung her hood up, pulling her legs to her chest and embracing them tightly as she let herself drown in purple fabric, her heavy breaths hitting her thighs as she tried to get a hold of herself. She needed to get a hold of herself. _I don't know what I'm doing_, she realized, _oh god, oh god, oh god, help me… I… I'm not_…

"Hey!" The taste of smoke was overwhelming, and it made her stomach churn. Jean's aura was pulsing around her. _Go away_, she wanted to snap. _All of you!_ "Damn it, Jaeger. Let the girl have her guilt, okay?"

"Yes, because I need a chain smoker deadbeat like you to tell me how to deal with people," Eren snapped. "Seriously, put that thing out."

"Does it really bother you that much?" Jean's voice was clipped, and she could hear his incredulity. "Well, that's just too bad. God, grow up."

"Okay, you know what—!"

Historia leapt to her feet, pushing herself between Eren and Jean just as Eren's fist came flying over her head. She shoved him hard, and then shoved Jean too, her eyes flashing between both boys, as her anger surfaced so thoroughly that she heard herself snarling, "_Stop_!"

And they did. They both looked down at her, remorse glittering in their eyes.

God, they were so easy.

"I don't—" She took a deep breath, and she swiped her tears away. "I don't want to hear any of this. I don't care. Go beat each other up on your own time, I don't care. I don't care!" She marched past them, scrubbing at the hollows of her eyelids and all but tripping over her cloak as she took to the street, pausing for a moment to gain some breath. She nearly started forward again, but she found herself wondering, and so she stayed in place, tears still streaming steadily as she listened to a car horn blare, and she turned to stare at the bewildered face of the driver as they came closer and closer until they were right upon her. _Let's see_, she thought_, just how invincible I really am_.

She was tackled to the street, her face skimming the pavement, and she tasted blood in her mouth as a strong pair of arms gripped her tightly, hefting her up and dragging her to the sidewalk as screams and horns and dizzy little sparks filled her bloody ears. She was lost in all the gold and all the red, and she giggled a little as memories choked her, filling her lungs with red dust.

"_You call that aim_?" A silvery voice was bleeding through her ears, leaking across her tender skin, and she saw dust, red, red, red dust. She felt her fist striking tender flesh, tender flesh, tender flesh beneath the ear. "_Do it again_."

Crack. Crack. Crack.

She was a porcelain doll, and she was cracking.

"You fuckin' idiot!" Eren shouted at her, holding her by both arms and shaking her so hard that she smacked her face against his chest. She didn't know if she was crying or laughing or if the blood was too much for her. She licked her lips, and found that the grooves of her skin were caked with something acrid, and then something salty. Blood and tears splashed against her tongue. "Sweet Jesus fuckin' Christ, okay, here's what's gonna happen. You are gonna just… stop actin' like a crazy person, and let yourself go. Cry about it. Try to beat me up. I don't care, just, stop takin' this shit out on yourself! You hear me?" He shook her again, and she found herself staring up at his face, peering at him dazedly through the blood and the tears.

Her mouth hurt, but it was healing, and her face was pressed to his chest, and she had trouble breathing because there was dust clogging her lungs. She was dizzy and sick of herself, but she was okay, possibly, maybe, it all depended. She let herself slump, and she wished she could just turn her mind off for a little while so she could get rid of this incessant nagging of how terrible she was, and how Armin deserved this immortal body more, and she hated, she hated, she hated it!

"I think I need to lay down," she mumbled into his shirt.

He scooped her into his arms, and she blinked rapidly as she tried to wrap her head around this. He was taking care of her. Why? Was she manipulating him, or was this just how he was? She didn't even know, and that was so terrible. She wanted to puke. Instead, she laid her head against his chest and listened as he shouted over at the cars that had stopped that she was okay.

"Here we go," he said, lying her down on the bench they'd been sitting on earlier. She was seeing stars, and they were all red and blurry and they tasted so foul, and she wished she could understand what was happening to her. "No more stunts like that, okay? Just 'cause you can't die, doesn't mean you can just throw yourself into death's grips, it's just… not okay. Don't do that." He knelt down so they were eyelevel, and she stared at him dazedly.

"I get why Armin hangs around you so much," she murmured, her stomach twisting at the very thought of her sick brother, her sick little brother who was missing and very likely in the hands of their enemies, and oh… she was going to puke…

"Huh?" Eren's face was hazy, but she could see the confusion in his bright green eyes, and that was enough. This was enough. She could handle it. She could get through this. Even if it felt like there was something attempting to devour her from the inside, she would handle this, if only because of this stupid boy, if only because she felt as though she was being treated as anyone else would be treated, for once, for once, for once…

She watched him, her head reeling, and she felt as though it was about to roll right off her shoulders. "You really…" she said, her voice croaky and lost. "You… make people feel like they belong."

Jean laughed at that, and Eren elbowed him rather hard in the stomach. She listened to the soft choking sounds, and she smiled into her hair. She wasn't sure what she wanted right now, if it was death or hope or just some semblance of normalcy, but she was glad that Eren was on her side regardless.

"I'm sorry I tried to get hit by a car," she said quietly.

"I'm sorry you're a fuckin' moron," Eren said. His voice was surprisingly tender, and he bopped her on the forehead. "Don't ever try somethin' like that again, okay?"

"Yeah…" She sat up, rubbing her head as she tried to clear it, desperate to find something to latch onto in the sandstorm of red dust that was pouring as though through a foggy hourglass into her lungs. She stared distantly ahead of her, listening the to cracking of a fist upon a boy's head, and she winced, coiling back. "God!"

"What?" Eren's face floated above hers, and he looked stricken and confused and horrified, and it was all so strange, because she was so aware of everything around her and it was so much, so much, so much_! Is this how Armin feels_, she wondered, gritting her teeth as she batted the feelings and the sounds away from her head. _These senses in overdrive, these thoughts unexplained, these feelings that overwhelm every little breath and every little motion?_ She could not stand it.

"I… I'm feeling things…" She tossed her head from side to side, rubbing the sensitive skin beneath her ear. "I'm hearing things. I think it's… it's something to do with, with Levi's father, with… what I did…"

"Oh," Eren said. "Okay. Is that fixable?"

"I don't know…"

"Uh… well, we'll fix it somehow." Eren nodded at her. "Don't worry about it."

"I'm trying really hard," she whispered, her fingers bunching against the thick fabric of her purple cloak. "I don't want to be… be so… lost, and helpless, and… and falling apart, I don't want that at all, but…"

"Just breathe," Eren told her. And she did. She breathed in deeply, and tried not to sob as she wiped the blood from her face. He helped her hastily, his touch a little too rough, and she winced as he scrubbed at the drying blood. "Maybe you're tryin' a little _too_ hard. Why don't you just take it easy?"

She sighed, and she nodded faintly, unsure of what that might entail. She was already messing up too many things at once. If she ran off again, Eren might kill her himself, which would be interesting, if not for the fact that she couldn't die, and she wasn't sure if she was masochistic enough to enjoy that kind of pain.

Jean sat down beside her. "You're a real mess, Historia," he said. He was smirking, but it still made her feel like she'd swallowed a rock, and she stared ahead of her with dull eyes, wondering why there was sand clogging her lungs, dust clinging to her muscles and making it difficult to move. She was being consumed by some silvery-crimson aura toiling inside of her, and she was scared of what it might do once it devoured her whole.

"Yeah…" She sighed, and she slumped a little as she tried to regain her composure. "I guess so…"

She nearly jumped out of her skin when Connie appeared at her side, a blur of blue as he reached up, scratching the stubble on his scalp and frowning. Sasha and Petra followed him at a much slower pace, looking less enthusiastic than the boy beside her.

"Hey, Tori," he chirped.

She was alarmed. "Um…" _Tori?_ She didn't know what to think. She'd never been given a nickname like that before. Unless Ymir's incessant use of _darling _counted.

"Okay, so we talked to the Braus clan, and it's a little pinched, but if you've gotta, you can stay with them for the night." Connie grinned broadly, waving his hands so fast that they disappeared in the blur. "It'd be like a sleepover!"

"Charming," Jean stated.

"Sounds like fun," Eren said, sounding earnest. "I figured we'd be home by then, though. I mean, it's been a little hectic, but we've got Kenny Ackerman's cell phone now, right? So Petra can definitely track the phone calls made recently, and then we'll be able to sort this shit out for good."

Historia couldn't help but sigh at that. Relieved, mostly, at the idea of having a solid plan. Maybe once they found the institute they'd be able to figure out how to fix her power so she didn't hurt people, or at the very least get this disgusting man's aura out of her. She could do with out the anxiety.

"Hey!" Sasha waved. "Hey, asshole! Do you mind waiting up? Petra here isn't exactly in the greatest shape!"

"I'm fine, actually," Petra laughed sheepishly, rubbing her cheek. Her hair was curling around her cheek in limp waves, all wispy at the ends. Historia peered at her own hair, plucking at the strands and tilting her head. _Maybe I should cut it_, she thought. _Then I'd look like Armin_. "Though I'm really excited to get home. I have so much work to do, but it'll be nice to just be somewhere familiar, you know?"

"I feel you," Eren said.

Historia nodded. She understood now what it was to have a home, and she understood that leaving it was harder than it looked. If it was easy to forsake a home, she wouldn't have been so reluctant to go with Ymir when she'd left. But then, if she had gone with Ymir, she would never have gotten so close to Armin. So was it worth it, then?

Oh, she didn't know.

"So, where's Levi?" Petra asked, looking around. They'd all changed their clothes, and Historia felt as though she was standing out in her purple cloak. Beneath it was normal clothes, though, so it wasn't too strange.

"Talkin' to Mikasa," Eren said. He grimaced, and scratched the back of his head. "Uh, probably about his dad. Maybe about the Ackerman thing. I dunno for sure."

"That makes sense," she said, though she looked a little distant. Historia supposed she couldn't be one to talk, all things considering, but even so. "I always thought they seemed like they were related for real, but this is just uncanny."

"Why would he lie about it?" Jean asked, folding his arms across his chest. "Like, clearly his name has always been Ackerman, but he kept refusing to admit that he and Mikasa were actually related."

"That's kinda his own fuckin' business," Eren said. "I honestly don't care. What matters is that guy is toast, thanks to Historia." He smiled at her warmly. "You kinda saved our asses. High five." He offered his hand, and she slapped it meekly.

"And, additionally," Connie said, pulling Kenny's phone from his pocket and waving it at them, "we've got our ticket to figuring things out! Go Tori!"

"Why do you keep…?" She couldn't find it in herself to criticize him for giving her a nickname. It was… sweet, actually. "Um, thanks. I think."

"Since Jean saved my computer," Petra said, adjusting the sweater she'd been hastily given to change into, "I'll be able to locate the source of all our problems within an hour. I was already well on my way to figuring out which location was our ultimate destination, but with the phone I can limit the search extensively. We'll have our answers soon enough."

"Thank god," Sasha laughed, rubbing her hair. "I mean, I love you guys, but this has all been super weird. Even for my standards."

"Um, question." Connie looked a little apprehensive as he tucked the phone back into his pocket, his eyes flitting up toward the sky. "So, like, say we find Ymir with the bad guys… what then?"

Eren's face darkened considerably. Historia couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever look past Ymir's misdeeds, but she supposed she really couldn't blame him. His fury was understandable. And, of course, Ymir always did make it difficult for people to like her. Historia wished she'd get past her determination to be the self-absorbed brat she continuously pretended to be. That was Historia, in truth.

"I have no idea, okay?" Eren's teeth were gritted, and he looked about ready to wring someone's neck. "Who the fuck cares, we'll cross that bridge when we get to it!"

Connie flinched, and nodded in spite of his shock. "Yeah, yeah!" he gasped. "Jeez, man! I'm sorry I asked."

Eren scowled, and he glared at the ground. Behind him, Historia could see the slumped figure of Levi stalking toward them, Mikasa striding not too far behind. He looked furious. Typical. Historia sunk into the fabric of her cloak, and she wished she and Armin could switch places once more. Then she'd have invisibility powers, and she's give anything to disappear.

Eren moved automatically, while Levi had to actually physically shove Jean away to get to Historia. She stared up at him blankly.

"You," he said, his voice clipped. "What did you say to Erwin?"

"What?" she blurted, utterly shocked. Erwin? What about Erwin? "I… I don't…"

"Levi," Mikasa warned. "Don't scare her."

"Yeah, you seriously owe her," Eren piped up. Levi shot him a look, and for a moment it looked as though Eren was about to back down, but Historia was honestly alarmed when he stood up straighter and stood his ground. "She killed your good for nothin' father even though you couldn't. You _owe_ her."

"Um…" she said weakly. "Eren, that's not entirely…"

"I'm not interested in playing a game of guilt," Levi said tersely. "All I want is to know what the fuck you said to Erwin to set him off."

"Set… Erwin…?" She didn't understand. Erwin as unshakable! Nothing fazed him! Nothing… "Did something happen?"

"He took the fucking jet and left for fuck knows where." Levi's eyes were narrowed into slits, and she could barely see the light in them. "So yeah. I'd say so."

"_What_?" they all seemed to cry in unison. Historia was reeling with the thought of it. Erwin had always seemed like an untouchable, unbreakable wall amongst sandcastle children. What on earth had she done to make him act so rashly?

"Yeah," Levi said. "Do you get it now?"

"I honestly didn't say anything!" Historia gasped, her chest tightening as she thought and thought and thought, red sand filling up her lungs as she stared upon this boy's— this _man's_— face. The aura inside of her was all jumpy and lucid, swirling and coiling and snapping its jaws around her heart, wispy teeth slicing through major arteries. "I… told him about what happened on the roof. About how I… how I killed your father…"

"Yes, fine." Levi rolled his eyes. "And? There was something else. Tell me."

"I don't know!" she cried, her shoulders shaking and her breath shortening. She felt the urge to punch him, to snarl at him for being an ungrateful brat, but that wasn't her, that wasn't her at all, and she was terrified. She brushed off Eren's hand when she reached for her, and she focused her energy on facing this stupid little bastard of a man. "I don't understand Erwin at all. How could you expect me to read his actions?"

"Because you were the last one to speak with him," he said. He studied her face, his eyes narrowing for a moment. And then they flashed wide as though struck with some vague idea. "Oh."

"Oh?" Petra repeated, sounding vaguely amused. "How about you enlighten those of us who don't speak monosyllabic, Levi."

"_Oh_," he repeated, shooting her a dark look, "I think I know what happened."

"Would you like an award?" Mikasa asked blandly. Historia almost smiled.

"Go stick your tongue to an icy pole, you little brat," he told her curtly. He turned his attention back to Historia. "Did you tell Erwin anything about Armin?"

_Armin? _Her heart sped up in anxiety_. You mean, my dying brother? My missing, dying brother, who I hardly even know? Ha!_ "Um…"

"Levi," Eren said, stepping between him and Historia, allowing her some reprieve from his vicious gaze. "When your dad was holding us at gunpoint, he said that the institute had Armin. It's probably not true though, I mean, it was just a ruse to get us to go with him, right?"

There was a heavy silence, and Historia blinked dazedly. Ah. They were all such fools.

Levi peeked over Eren's shoulder at her. "Did you tell him that?" he asked. He sounded almost patient. Almost.

"Um… yeah… I guess, I mean…" She swallowed thickly. "Ah, probably?"

"Well," Levi said. "Shit."

"But," Connie gasped, "wait, wait! That's not enough reason to just steal a jet without warning and skeddadle! Like, come on!"

"Yeah!" Sasha agreed. "Just because your creepy dad mentioned Armin doesn't make like, anything he says true!"

"No," Levi said calmly, "but you're forgetting. Erwin's power is precognition."

"What the frick frack is that?" Connie stated blankly.

"He can see the future, dummy," Sasha sighed.

"Wait," he said, blinking wildly. "Wait, I totally knew that. My comic book knowledge failed me for a moment. I'm so ashamed."

"As you should be," Sasha said. "You are a shameful excuse for a human being. For shame, Constantino. For shame."

Levi was staring at them so intensely that they both squeaked in absolute terror and clung to each other's shirts for support. He turned his face from them, possibly legitimately ashamed to be in their presence, and he addressed Historia once more.

"Erwin can't see Armin's future directly," he said. "So I'm gonna bet that whatever he saw, it was terrible. Like, really bad. Erwin doesn't react like this over anything."

_Oh god_, she thought, biting down on her lower lip hard. "Maybe he's just… really worried about Armin," she said weakly.

"We're _all_ really worried about Armin, though," Eren said, blinking down at her. "I mean, he's missing? And kinda sick."

"Kinda," Historia repeated in a thick, bland tone. She couldn't believe this. She smiled wanly, and when she took a deep breath, all that came out was a broken sob. Oh, this was the worst. This was an absolute disaster. She buried her face in her hands, and dug her fingernails into the flesh of her forehead. Here she was, crying again. This time in front of everyone. She didn't want them to know why, but she couldn't help it. It just wasn't fair!

"Historia?" It was Mikasa. Her voice was light for once, very soft and gentle and so unlike the girl that she'd almost mistaken it.

"Hey," Eren said. His hand rested once again on her head. "We're gonna bring him home. Don't worry."

_That's not the problem_. She couldn't even look at them, she was too ashamed and frightened of their faces. They'd hate her if she told them. And Armin would hate her too. She couldn't win.

"She's been like this for like, an hour," Jean said. "One minute she's okay, and the next she's crying her eyes out."

"With good fuckin' reason, you grade A douchebag," Eren snapped. "You kill someone and feel jolly about it!"

"Both of you," Mikasa said in a loud, slicing voice. "Shut up. Now."

"But, Mikasa— oof!" Eren grunted, and when she peeked through her fingers she saw him holding his stomach, doubled over in pain.

"Why don't we all give Historia some space?" Petra offered. "Starting with Levi."

"Fine." She listened as his boots scuffed against the sidewalk, and she jumped to her feet, tears streaking freely down her cheeks.

"No!" she gasped. He stopped, and when he turned to face her she couldn't help but shrink back. Everyone was staring at her, and she had a peculiar feeling in the pit of her stomach, as though something had slithered down there and pierced through the soft fleshy insides of her viscera. "I-I… I mean…"

"Spit it out."

She scrubbed at her eyes with the heels of her hands. "I'm sorry," she mumbled, breathless and uncertain. "I… I want to tell you the truth… a-about Armin."

"Truth?" Eren seemed to be able to speak now, in spite of his pain. "Wait, c'mon. You were keepin' secrets about Armin from us?"

Levi turned his full attention to her. That made her uncomfortable.

"H-he made me promise," she uttered in a quiet little breath of a voice, "not to tell… he wanted to be the one… to…" She sniffed, wiping her teary, snotty face on her cloak. She then hiccupped.

"Okay…?" Eren said. "So what is it? It can't be worse than him getting kidnapped, right?"

Historia looked up at him, staring into his eyes until his expression crumpled.

"No way," he said.

"Erwin made me promise not to tell too," she said, her voice shaky and weak. "But… Erwin's not here…"

"Yes," Sasha said eagerly. "Tell us."

"Is this remotely relevant?" Levi asked. "Because if not, I'm leaving."

She bit back a command to hold his tongue. Even standing up straight, she was the smallest among them. She felt sad. "Armin…" She didn't know how to say it. How did you say something like this? It was so strange.

"Seriously, kid," Levi said sharply. "Spit it out."

"Fine," she snapped, surprising everyone. Herself included. "The reason Armin has been so strange the past few weeks— or maybe even months? The reason he's been acting so jumpy, having hallucinations, and mood swings, and seizures? It's not because of his powers."

"Wait, what?" Eren asked flatly. "What else could it be, I mean—?"

"Eren," Mikasa whispered. "Hush."

And, surprisingly, he clamped his mouth shut.

She had to wipe another batch of tears away, and she shook her head as she rubbed her eyes to her sleeve. "We had to go to a hospital in DC," she croaked. "To… to see our mom. Armin collapsed in the hallway, and the doctors just… took him before I even knew what'd happened."

They were all listening to her intently when she opened her eyes again. They stared at her. Eren's lips were locked tight, and he looked about ready to simultaneously burst into tears and rip someone's throat out. She took a deep breath. This time it didn't end in a sob.

"Armin has a tumor," she said. She directed her attention forward, unable to look any of them in the eye. "He said not to tell you. He probably… wanted to be here himself, to calm you down. I don't really know."

They were all very quiet. Even Eren. Even Jean. It was eerie, and she hated it, and she would rather peel her skin off bit by bit than wallow in this horror.

"I'm sorry," she said. The words tasted bland and dull on her tongue.

"Tell me that's a lie," Eren said. She heard the fury and the pain in his rising, shuddering voice. "Or— or somethin'! What does that mean? A tumor, what does that—?"

"Yo!" Jean swatted Eren over the head, in which Eren responded by grabbing his arm and nearly twisting it behind the boy's back. Mikasa tore them apart. "Shit! Will you quit pulling stunts like that? Just listen to Historia, and quit acting like such a child!"

"A tumor," Levi stated. Historia nodded furiously. "What kind of tumor?"

"They… didn't run a biopsy, if that's… what you're asking," she said uncertainly. "But the last time this happened, it was malignant."

"_The last time_?" Jean spluttered.

"Uh…" Sasha said weakly. Connie merely looked uncomfortable. Petra looked horrified, but fascinated. And Eren was tearfully furious.

"I understand," Levi said quietly. "And Erwin knew this?"

"Yes," she gasped, her eyes widening. "Yes, he knew all of it. He knows even more than I do, since he… actually talked with the doctor… and Armin…" She grimaced. "I think there's a good chance for a successful operation though…? That's… what the doctor implied, I—"

"I imagine the doctor would," Levi said. He closed his eyes, pinching his nose irritably. "Okay, this changes things."

"How?" Eren asked, his voice cracking desperately. "How can we change this?"

Levi looked at him. There was something stricken in his face as his lips drew back into a grimace, his eyes averting fast. "Unfortunately," he said, "we can't. Armin's best bet right now is the facility."

"Fuck no," Mikasa said.

"Don't 'fuck no' me, bitch. I'm not kidding." He straightened up, and he looked around at them, at each of their faces. "Historia has no way to heal the kid, right? The facility does. As gross as it is, if they have him already, they're probably well on their way to fixing him."

"But they're evil!" Eren cried.

"They saved our lives once," Historia whispered. "And… isn't evil a relative term?"

"They've killed loads of people, and that ain't even the start. They've wrecked so many lives!" Eren shook his head furiously. "I don't trust them with Armin's life!"

"I'm not suggesting he stay there forever," Levi said. "I'm only saying that it's very likely that he's safe at the moment. And it seems like Erwin has a plan."

"He took off on a jet without warning," Jean said, his voice dull and snide. "What about that seems planned out to you?"

"Well…" Eren grimaced a little, still looking ready to begin sobbing while ramming his fist through a wall. "It _is_ Erwin, I mean like, if anyone has a plan…"

"If the institute has Armin," Mikasa said, turning to face Levi, "then both our goals will converge in one place when we manage to locate their current base, right?"

"Petra, how fast can you track the location?" Eren asked eagerly. She could hear the edge to his voice, the fear and the uncertainty that she understood very well.

"Um, well—" Petra began. Levi cut her off, his eyes flashing dangerously.

"First of all," he said, "we need to recuperate from what happened at the hospital. I'm going to call Hange so they can fly out here and get us, but for the time being you little shits need to be patient. We can't get to Armin immediately, so you might as well relax while you still can."

"But—!" Eren gasped. Levi's eyes shot to his face, and Eren seemed to swallow his words, though his face contorted in ferocity that he seemed unable to quell.

"Erwin and Armin are clearly a lot alike," Levi said, staring into Eren's face and forcing the boy to back down. "Would you trust Armin if he were in the position Erwin is in right now?"

Eren said nothing in reply. He merely slumped, his head bowed and his eyes lowered to the ground. Historia stood, her cloak wavering in the bitter wind, and Levi nodded as though to say, "Thought so." She thought him very smug, for a bastard whore.

She flinched at her own awful thoughts, and her blood seemed to squirm inside her veins in disgust of her own warped body. How cruel this was. She was cruel, and she was monstrous, and there was a disgusting man's essence inside her, toiling and boiling and waiting to strike.

She'd have to overcome it somehow.

Levi pulled out his phone and wandered away from them. Historia was left to stand, her cheeks numb from the icy wind lashing upon her tears. She rubbed her face tiredly, trying to find some solace in this. She was unstable, and she knew it, but there was an emptiness crawling inside her, and she wanted to be rid of all this uncertainty and fear.

Eren had turned to her, grabbing her by the arms. "Is Armin going to be okay?" he asked her urgently. She stared up at him, her mouth parted and her eyes wide. She couldn't speak.

"Eren," Mikasa said softly. She resting the tips of his fingers against his bicep, and after some fierce contemplation, his expression echoing a myriad of emotions like beacons piercing her eyes, he released her.

"I'm sorry," she said weakly. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_.

"Um…" Sasha spoke very softly. "I'm gonna have my dad pick us up, okay?"

"That's fine," Mikasa said. "Thank you."

Historia found herself sullenly trailing after Levi. Her mind was in a cloud, and her heart was in the crushing grip of some terrible, terrible aura. She ignored her friends' shouts, waving them off and breaking into a sprint, her feet clapping against the pavement as she slid easily before the man, staring up into his chilly blue eyes. He had his phone pressed firmly to his ear.

"I want to talk to you," she said, breathless.

He stared at her blankly.

"Hange," he said, "I'll call you back."

She was a little relieved when he drew the phone from his ear, watching her rather warily. She wasn't very confident, and she had no idea what had come over her to act on the thoughts rattling inside her brain, but now that she had she supposed there was no point in backing down.

"Well?" he asked her. He looked irritated.

"I…" She wrung her hands nervously. "Um…"

He stared at her expectantly. When she made a soft squeaking sound, he rolled his eyes and turned away from her.

"Wait!" she gasped, grabbing him by the arm. "I want you to tell me about my mother!"

He shoved her away, looking incredibly uncomfortable as he blinked down at her. "What?" His voice was flat and clipped. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"My mother," she said, her breath caught inside her throat. "You used to work with her, didn't you? She was at the institute, and her procedure went wrong so they—"

"Rose," he said.

She winced. "Well, that's not her real name, but yes—"

"Rose is your mother," he said.

"Yes…?" She wondered if this was odd for him. Then she recalled that Levi being a prostitute was not really common knowledge, and it was probably something to be ashamed of. "She's being taken care of in a hospital in Washington DC. I… don't really know anything about her. She's not really all there, so when we went to see her it was just…" She stared at him, and he stared back. "Um… upsetting."

"I can imagine," he said darkly.

"So, I just… I thought maybe you'd be able to… just tell me what she was like. Before, I mean." Historia rubbed her head, spitting words bubbling fiercely inside her cracked little mind. She hated it.

"We didn't know each other well," he said. He turned away from her, shaking his head. "Sorry. The most we talked about was work related. Which is not something you'll want to hear."

She stood on wobbly legs, her body beaten by the gusts of wind that toyed with her cloak, whipping it around her. She'd cracked right open, and now her heart and her mind were pouring right out of her.

"Your father keeps talking to me," she said in a voice that sounded vague and blank, despite her shaky form. He whirled around to face her, his expression dark and his eyes ablaze. "I can't get his voice out of my head. He keeps showing me things. Things he'd put you through. How do I make this go away?"

His stare pierced through her, and it made her leaky mind boil.

"You're insane," he told her.

She shook her head furiously. "No," she said, "no, I'm… I'm not, I…" She held her head dizzily. "He used to drag you out of bed in the middle of the night and take you into the forest. He'd put a knife in your hand, and he'd just… leave you there. If you didn't have blood on your hands when he came back for you in the morning, he'd leave you for a whole day and a night more. This went on until you were too big for games, and then he started sending you off to kill people." She smiled tremulously, tears swimming in her eyes. "You were so good at it!"

He snatched by the wrists, and for a moment she thought he might strike her. The voice in her head was giddy over that idea, and she was lost amongst the red sands and the pulsating emotions that could not be her own.

She fell to her knees, tears stinging her eyes, and she coughed a laugh of disbelief. "Help me," she giggled, tears streaking freely down her cheeks. "Help me, please, get him out of my head…"

His aura was all gold and whooshing, swirling in her hands as he held her by her wrists, her eyes upon the ground as the voice taunted her. Too dramatic, too weak, too careless!

"Fuck," Levi said. To her alarm, he knelt down before her. "No wonder you're acting so fucked up. That bastard hasn't got any business being in anyone's head."

"Y-you…" She glanced up at him with teary eyes. "You believe me…?"

"Unless you're a mind reader," he said, grimacing as he released her wrists, "I don't see any other explanation for how you knew that shit. Look. Calm down. It's probably just a dumb side effect."

"He wants me to kill you," she whispered, sinking into the depths of her cloak. "I… I just… wanted to help… I didn't think this would…"

"Listen," he said. "If you can weather my father's goddamn voice in your head, then you'll be _my_ fucking hero." He looked very uncomfortable, his eyes hardly reaching her face, but when they did they looked surprisingly earnest. And then, without warning, he rose to his feet. "Stand up. You are alive, and he's dead. If he's really trying to control you, then he'll just fade away the longer you resist him."

She stared at him confusedly.

"Go on," he said. "Stand up!"

She leapt upright, her feet colliding with the sidewalk, and she wobbled and blinked, banishing the sight of his bleeding gold aura with a swift wave of her hand. She had no reason to look at it, after all.

"Good." Levi shrugged. "Tell me if it gets worse, okay?"

She was still wobbling pitifully. "I feel like I'm gonna throw up," she admitted.

"Welcome to the club, kid."

Eventually Sasha's father came to pick them all up in a van, and by they she was simply trying to distract herself by listening intently to the others and avoiding questions about Armin. They seemed to be too scared to ask, thankfully. Hange was taking quite a bit of time to get there, so they ended up staying over night. It wasn't that bad, but Sasha's house was a little cramped because Connie's family was staying there as well.

Historia sat on the floor, swimming in the sweatshirt Sasha had given her to sleep in. Mikasa was lying on her stomach, staring at her phone, and Sasha was conversing happily with Connie's younger sister, Eliza. Petra was off speaking to Sasha's parents, or Levi, or something. The boys were in a completely different room.

"So what do you do?"

Historia glanced at the girl. She was young, but not much younger than them. Probably two years or so. She had long brown hair, a light shade that was almost sandy as it fell across her rounded cheek. She had Connie's acute eyebrows and sharp stare.

"What?" Historia asked weakly.

"Your power," Eliza said. "You're Vitae, I know that much, but like, what does that even mean?"

"Life," Historia replied.

Both Sasha and Eliza stared at her incredulously.

"In Latin?" Sometimes she forgot not everyone had her and Armin's penchant for Latin. It couldn't really be helped. "Vitae is the genitive case of vita, which means life. Ah, it's the plural too. Vita, vitae." She rubbed her head, her hair gathering between her fingers. "Sorry, it's been awhile since I looked at a Latin textbook."

"You're weird," Eliza said matter-of-factly.

"You and Armin are definitely related," Mikasa mused aloud. Historia glanced down at her, and she found that her words actually warmed her hollow chest a bit, batting away the vice-like sands and making her feel something akin to pride. If that was possible for someone like her.

"I'm sorry," she told Mikasa quietly. "I know you'd rather have him here than me."

"Uh, yeah," she said, rolling onto her side. Historia was able to hide how hurt that made her feel, but even so, she had to look away. "Listen, I've known Armin for about half my life. But I don't hate you, and I wouldn't want you to be put in the position Armin's in right now. You really need to stop selling yourself short."

Historia's mouth fell open.

"You guys are really weird," Eliza sighed. "Why do you gotta talk about such serious stuff?"

"They're both super, _super_ serious, Lizzie!" Sasha gasped, flopping backwards onto her pillow. "You're the only one who gets how stuffy it is, talking about this sort of stuff!"

"You're the weirdest out of all of you!" Eliza scoffed, throwing her pillow over Sasha's face. Sasha screamed into it lowly, almost moaning, and she kicked her legs and flailed as the pillow muffled her voice. "See? So weird."

"Thank you," she said to Mikasa, ignoring the scuffle between Connie's sister and Sasha.

"I didn't do anything," she said, turning her face back to her phone.

Historia nodded, though she didn't really believe that. She bowed her head and stared at her skinny legs, wondering if Armin was fairing alright, or if he was… _No_, she thought, squeezing her eyes shut. _He's fine. He's fine. No bad thoughts. Not tonight_.

She felt a heavy hand on her shoulder, and she looked up at Mikasa, startled. The girl was slumped a little, but she stared into Historia's eyes and tilted her head almost innocently.

"Can you braid my hair?" she asked.

Historia wondered if she'd heard her right. "W-wha…?" She straightened up as Mikasa turned her back to her, sitting cross-legged with her hands on her knees. Her head was tilted back ever so slightly. "Oh. Oh! Yes, okay. Of course." She reached forward, taking a clump of thick black hair between her fingers. It was soft and shiny, and she recalled that Mikasa had the most beautiful hair. "How do you want me to braid it?"

"How ever." Mikasa sat very still, like a slender stone statue as Historia weaved the mass of hair together with ease even in spite of its length.

It was strange, doing something so normal. She'd missed normalcy more than any of them could ever know. She missed sitting on the floor with Armin, sharing a bowl of popcorn and making snide remarks about the quality of the horror movie they were watching. She liked this sort of thing, because it made her feel like she was something more than this cracked foundation of something that could have been so much better if given the right chance. She was so ashamed of herself.

But, in the end, she was beginning to appreciate the little gift she'd been given. Yes, she'd lost herself completely and utterly somewhere along the way. Yes, she was half losing her mind. But she genuinely enjoyed the company of those around her. She adored having friends, and they… they had to like her for who she was, right? She hadn't acted like Christa Lenz at all recently. So they must like the real her fine.

And if they didn't… it didn't matter. Because this was who she was.

She smiled contentedly, burying the hyped feelings of something inside her bubbling up, because she felt as though maybe, perhaps, she could handle this.

"There," she said happily. "All done."

Mikasa ran her fingers down the surface of the smooth french braid that ran down the back of her head. "Nice," she said, twisting to peer at a mirror. "You're really good at this."

"Ah…" Historia flushed. "My mother taught me. My, uh, fake mother. I guess. It's complicated."

"Yes, I'd imagine." Mikasa faced her. She was so very pretty, with her delicate features only making her more fearsome when the revelation came to play that she could easily crush every bone in your body. "Well, at least you know your family history. I'm totally in the dark."

"About Levi?" she asked eagerly. Mikasa grimaced. "So, you really think you guys are related?"

"Ooh!" Sasha bolted upright, the pillow on her face falling into her lap. "This sounds scandalous. And like, considering half this team is related, I'm not surprised at all. Tell."

"I don't know what's going on," Eliza announced, flopping onto her back and yanking a blanket over her. "I'm gonna sleep. Night."

"Night," they said in unison. Then they focused once more on Mikasa.

"Well, he's definitely not my brother," Mikasa said. "My parents were pretty young. And clearly, if he is related to me, it's from my dad's side. Since he's not Asian."

"White as a baby's tushie," Sasha said, smiling a little dopily.

"Right," Mikasa said. "I… guess? So, I don't know much about my grandparents. On either side. It's possible that Levi is my cousin, which would make Kenny Ackerman my uncle. Ackerman isn't an incredibly common last name, but it's not rare either. So we really just don't know."

"You could always just do a DNA test," Historia offered. "That's what Armin and I did."

"We could do that," she said quietly.

"Ah." Sasha scooted closer to Mikasa, smirking at her. "You don't want to know, do you?"

"It's complicated." Mikasa sighed. Historia wondered what was so complicated about it. She'd been so eager to find out if she and Armin were brother and sister, she'd hardly felt anything but anxiety at the thought of waiting to find out. And then, with a start, she realized.

"You don't want things to change between you two," she said softly. Mikasa raised her eyes to Historia's. She said nothing.

"That's a silly way to think," Sasha huffed.

"Levi and I have a strange relationship," Mikasa said slowly. "It's always been very hard to empathize or communicate with him. But I think we agree on this. We don't need to know if we're related or not. It wouldn't change a thing."

They could only stare at her.

And so she shrugged, and she laid down on her pillow. It seemed that was all the conversation she wanted for the evening, which was unfortunate. Historia had been really enjoying herself, getting to know Mikasa and Sasha better. She sighed, lying down herself, and batting away the dangerous thoughts that were not her own. She wished she could fight it off better. She wished she had Armin's mental strength.

She fell asleep thinking of him in that hospital bed. Would that be how it was? With everyone in her life? Just sitting by hospital bed after hospital bed as all her friends expired?

She did not think she'd survive the loneliness.

When she woke up, it was only because of the soft tapping against the glass of the window she was lying under. She sat up dazedly, rubbing her eyes and looking to make sure Mikasa, Sasha, and Eliza were all still sleeping. Mikasa had stirred, her shoulders going taut, and the tapping continued in slow intervals. Historia sat upon her knees and peered outside into the darkness.

There was a silhouette outside. Down below. Head craned up to look up at her. Historia's breath fogged the glass, and she pressed her hand to it, wiping at it slowly to keep it from squeaking against her palm. Then, to her awe and disbelief, a fire burst into life below, bathing the silhouette in a grand blur of sweet yellow light. Historia's heart jumped into her throat.

She pushed off from the window, leaping to her feet and carefully stepping over her temporary roommates, slipping out the door and grimacing as her small bare feet hit a creaky stare. She was breathless, and her blood was rushing, and her heart was racing, and oh, was she imagining this? She must be imagining it!

But when she opened the front door, her fear left in her lonely nightmares, resting upon a thousand thousand graves, she found that reality was in her favor for once. The door clicked shut behind her, and Historia grinned into the stark November night, fire glowing brightly before her and warming the entire expanse of the yard in spite of the snarling wind around them.

"Ymir," she said, testing the name as though dipping her toe into a frozen lake. And then, laughing, she ran at her friend and hurled her arms around her neck, feeling the fire go out as Ymir returned the hug twofold, her arms snaking around Historia's waist and pulling her close to her chest. She then promptly lifted Historia into the air, laughing her jaunty old laugh, swinging her from side to side.

"Ah," she gasped into Historia's shoulder. "Ah, _cari__ñ__o_… missed me that much, huh? I'd 'spect so, I'm too dashingly good lookin'—"

"Oh, cut it out," Historia laughed, kicking the air wildly as she rested her chin in Ymir's hair. "What are you even doing here? Ymir, we've all been scared to death!"

"Doubt it," she scoffed, lowering her to the ground but never releasing her from her firm grip. Historia's toes wiggled in the dewy grass. "Eren loathes me like I'm the scum of the earth. Aha! Perhaps I am! Ain't that somethin' sweet to suck on?"

"No, I'm serious," Historia said firmly. "You should really come back. We need you now more than ever, especially with what's going on with Armin—"

"Love," she whispered. "That's why I'm here."

Historia stood, her arms circled around Ymir's neck, her body pressed up against hers, and she found herself utterly at a loss as she stared into her dark face. "What?" she asked confusedly.

Ymir began to pet her hair, and Historia decidedly ignored that in favor of finding out what she knew about Armin. Oh, she was hiding something all right. Historia's eyes narrowed. "Ymir," she said. When she did not reply, she stood on her tiptoes. "Ymir… come on. No bullshit. He's my brother, and he's not… okay right now. What did you come here to tell me?"

"Tell you?" Ymir laughed. "My love, my love— I didn't come here to spill some info and leave. Unfortunately."

Historia realized. She took a tentative step back, but Ymir had her too tight. Right. Right, okay. This was bad. _But I trust Ymir_, Historia told herself. _I trust Ymir with my life_. But Historia knew well that some things changed. And she was stuck as the bitter result.

"I can't run away with you," she said gently, though part of her felt as though there was much, much more than just that. "I love you too, of course, but my decision from the day you left still stands."

"Come on," Ymir moaned, "let's just give it a go."

"No." Historia scowled. "What is wrong with you? I don't want to go with you, and that's final. Let go of me."

Ymir smiled dimly in the darkness.

"They have Armin," she said quietly.

Historia stood. She swallowed thickly, and raised her chin high. "I know," she said.

Her eyes seemed to widen considerably, and they darted from her face to the side and back to her face, averting and reverting in a strange, frantic rhythm. "You know," she said, utterly shocked. "Wow. I see. Well, he's dying."

"I know that too," she said. "Ymir, what are they doing to you? Did they threaten me, or something? Because I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

She barked a cynical little laugh, and she kissed her hair. "Oh," she breathed, "you foolish girl…" And then, without warning, she lifted Historia's chin and crushed her lips with her own.

Historia had never kissed anyone before, but she'd always imagined it'd be different. Nicer. Ymir was being strangely aggressive with her kiss, her lips moving in an odd rhythm against Historia's. She wasn't sure if she was supposed to reciprocate, or even if she wanted to at this point, because it had been out of nowhere, and she was already angry with Ymir.

The kissing didn't stop immediately, and Ymir's lips were hot against hers, pushing and pulling and strange, and Historia stared at her face, utterly bewildered and a little wary, especially when Ymir's lips trailed steadily away from her mouth and against her jawbone, softer now and quicker. Historia stood very still, not sure what else to do at the moment. Maybe someone would find them in this very compromising position, and she'd be saved.

"U-uh, Ymir," Historia laughed uncertainly. "This doesn't actually excuse anything at all. I'm still angry at you."

Ymir groaned, and the sound vibrated against Historia's skin as the girl left a hot trail of kisses down the line of her jaw. And then, just when Historia had just about had enough, a little close to giggles but also a little close to bashing Ymir on the head for acting in such a way, Ymir's lips reached her ear.

"Keep your mind blank," she exhaled, her nails digging into Historia's back. "He's always listening. You can't trust him. He's weaker than Armin, but he can actually read your mind."

Historia's mouth dropped open. Her mind? Clear? Well, with the rampaging voice of Mr. Terrible Ackerman, that was unlikely. His words were filling up her brain, snide and disgusted. She wished him dead all over again.

She understood, suddenly, what Ymir was trying to do.

She turned Ymir's face from her ear, and she kissed her back. It lacked the passion and aggression held in Ymir's kiss, but she hoped it relayed what she was trying to say.

Well, she was _thinking_ that Ymir sucked a lot for dragging her into this. So much for keeping her mind blank.

She had no idea what was going on.

It was probably best if she didn't think about it.

The door burst open behind her, and Historia broke away from Ymir to whip around. She squinted into the darkness, watching a slow silhouette emerge from the house. Ymir's arms were still firmly around her waist.

"Mikasa…?" Historia grimaced. "Wait, hold on—!"

She shrieked in alarm as she was hefted up by Ymir, and tossed over her shoulder like a ragdoll. "Hey!" She wriggled in Ymir's grasp. "Hey, stop that! Let me down!"

"No can do, princess," she gasped, the world a blur of blackness as Historia twisted to watch Mikasa pursue. She was fast. Faster than Ymir.

And then the entire world lit up.

Historia screamed, pain lancing through her as fire licked up her arms and legs and devoured her torso.

Her eyes were melting as she was wrapped in blanket. A car door slammed in the sweet ringing silence, and a snarling scream broke through the vague crackle of her healing flesh.

* * *

_This week on Historia Reiss Is So Fucked Up._


	33. free knowledge

**libera scientia**

**?**

_a.d. Non. Nov., 2766 A.U.C._

The drugs were doing their job.

Miraculously, he was feeling better. He was breathing easier now, and he was even free to breath on his own. The only time he was mandated to use the nasal cannula was when he left his bed to walk around. He was astonished to find that he was allowed to do that. He wandered the halls of the institute, feeling his memories begin to surface of the old building in Pennsylvania that held his childhood in a tight grip. This building looked familiar too.

Armin found that he actually enjoyed Reiner and Bertholdt's company a lot more than he thought he would. They were familiar, and they weren't Marco, so they were pretty much his best friends in the world for the time being. His powers were dulled, so he didn't mind being around them at all. In fact, he could probably get used to this.

The fact that drugs dulled his powers, of course. Not that institute. He was getting the hell out of here. Somehow.

He'd observed several security cameras, and he'd noted all the exits, taking his time to examine each and every one. Marco would knew what he was doing, but as it currently stood, Armin had no way of getting out, and his condition was still too serious to consider leaving on his own. He was a fool in part, but if he was going to escape he at least wanted to live long enough to see his family and friends again.

"Armin!" Reiner found him wandering an upper corridor, his oxygen tank at his side as he studied the blind spot between two cameras. Armin found himself smiling, genuinely, as the boy threw his arm around his tiny shoulders. "Morning! Look at you all up and at it. Bet you're feeling better, huh?"

"Actually," Armin admitted, laughing a little as he let his oxygen tank rest beside him, "yeah. I haven't had a headache in awhile, and my breathing has significantly improved. My heart rate still isn't great, but that's unsurprising."

"Whew," Reiner said, making a show of wiping his brow. "I'm really glad. I know you kinda hate me a little, for like, lying and shit, but you know I care about you, right?"

"I can tell, Reiner," Armin replied gently. "Don't worry."

"Ha!" he said, ruffling Armin's hair. "Good, good. So, what? Checking your escape routes?"

"Nothing gets past you, huh?" Armin smiled, waggling his finger. "Damn it all. I've been foiled again."

"Marco will probably just let you go when you're healthy again," Reiner said with a shrug. "He lets me, Berthodlt, and Annie come and go as we please, so why not you?"

"Because I'm dying," Armin sighed. "And because we have the same power. It's unlikely Marco will just allow me my freedom."

"But that's just a temporary thing," Reiner insisted. "He's just worried about you right now, that's all. Once you're in good shape, he'll probably realize how dumb it is to keep you trapped in here, and you'll be free to go."

_We'll never be free of him_, Armin thought, shrugging meagerly at Reiner. "At the moment," Armin said, "my biggest concern is the others. I know their scans came up clean from the robot thing, but the question still stands. What if their impairments come back?"

"Then they'll be treated," Reiner said. "Just the same as you. And we have Dr. Jaeger again, so that's good."

"Again?" Armin tilted his head. "Did you not have him at some point?"

"Eh." Reiner waved his hand, indicating the question was a little up in the air. "He was here sometimes, but he liked to travel. Study different illnesses in different places, look for natural anomalies, and stuff. He was actually away when the institute burned down, so when he came back he was kinda furious that Marco had just let Eren go."

"I'd imagine," Armin murmured. He grasped his oxygen tank, and started forward, listening to it roll against the linoleum tile. "Walk with me."

"Sure." Reiner followed Armin slowly, taking great care to keep to a steady pace. "So, curious. Do you still want to die?"

"That's a complicated question."

"Um, no, it really is not." Reiner stared down at him, and Armin could sense his concern even with his powers numbed to the point of barely existing. "Dude, you gotta fight this."

"I am," Armin sighed.

"No," Reiner accused, "you're trying to succumb to it. Because, what? You think you're dangerous, or whatever? We're all dangerous!"

"I'm just not as concerned about dying as everyone else is at this point," he replied, his fingers tightening around the handle of his oxygen tank. "I mean, you've been around this track once, you've been around it a hundred times. It's not something I really want to put effort into caring about. I don't really_ like_ the idea of suffering on and on until I finally expire, so I'm really just trying to make this easier on myself and everyone else. We should all prepare ourselves for the worst, don't you think?"

"Nah," Reiner said, shaking his head furiously. "You're not gonna die."

"You're completely ignoring everything I just said."

"I am casually brushing it aside as complete and utter bullshit," Reiner said, grinning broadly. Armin glanced up at him, and he found himself smiling in spite of himself. "You're really strong, you know. You can beat this thing."

Armin chose to keep his bitter words to himself. Reiner was the closest thing to a friend he had right now, and pissing him off wouldn't be very productive. "So, about Dr. Jaeger," Armin said, changing the subject hastily. "Did he ever think about going after Eren?"

"Oh, yeah." Reiner waved his hand, his eyes cast toward the ceiling. "Lots of times. But Eren was pretty happy where he was, and Marco advised against it. For Marco reasons."

"Gotta love it when he has zero explanation for his decisions, huh?" Armin smiled grimly.

"He can probably hear you."

"I hope he does." Armin stared ahead of him, listening to the sound of his slippers against the tile floor, muted scuffing beside the squeak of wheels. "Honestly, if I feared him in any way, I feel like it'd give him some sick satisfaction. So, I'll be pretty candid about how I feel about him. I think he's disgusting."

Reiner grimaced. "I guess you have your reasons," he said slowly. "But he's really not a bad guy."

Armin laughed. The sound was sharp and bitter as it tore from his throat, and he raised his eyes to Reiner and tilted his head. "Sorry," he said, covering his mouth with his hand. "But I just can't take that seriously. I'm not exactly the nicest person in the world, not by any means, but what Marco's done goes beyond disturbing. Bad, good, I don't care. He'll always be a monster to me."

"That's not really fair," Reiner argued. "You don't know his reasoning—"

"No, I do." Armin sighed. "I understand perfectly well why he did everything he did, and even then, I just can't fathom it. Marco and I are a lot alike in a lot of different ways, but I draw the line at his disregard for the sanity of others. He does not care if he pushes someone over the edge. I mean, look what he did to my mother."

Reiner looked a little unsure, and Armin realized he likely did not know what Marco had done to his mother. Well. Oh well. Armin didn't care. His point stood, and he was sticking with it. Also, he really just wanted to differentiate himself from Marco to justify his hatred. Sure, Armin hated himself a good amount, but he didn't think he was like Marco. He didn't think he could ever be like Marco.

_Even if I lived a few centuries all alone_…

He thought about Historia. He prayed she wouldn't suffer the same fate.

"Anyway," Armin said, shaking his head, "I guess it just boils down to the fact that he made me think I was losing my mind for a while. That wasn't really fun."

"Sorry, dude."

"Eh." He shrugged. "It happens."

"Uh, so, sorry if this is invasive, or something—"

"Reiner," he said, "you're talking to me here. I'm like, the reigning supreme of invasive, unless you count Marco."

"Ha!" Reiner's massive hand clamped over Armin's head as he ruffled his hair. "True! So, do you have to do chemo?"

Ah. That was the question.

"I asked that to Dr. Jaeger this morning," Armin said slowly, "but he wouldn't give me a concrete answer. But chances are, yes."

"Sorry, man."

"It's fine," he lied easily, shaking his head. "I've been through this before, so it's not so bad."

"Still…" Reiner smirked, and he swatted the back of Armin's head lightly. "It'll be a shame to lose this gorgeous friggin' bowl cut!"

"Are you making fun of my hair?" Armin squeaked, his hand flying to his head. He actually was very sad about it. He liked his hair.

"Of course not. I'm very passionate about the bowl cut."

Armin flushed, his fingers knotting in the yellow strands, and he huffed. "It's not a bowl cut," he murmured. "And cut it out!"

"Swag, swag, swag," Reiner stated waving two fingers in front of Armin's face. In turn, Armin swatted his arm away, laughing in disbelief.

"I'm embarrassed for your existence," he said.

It went on like that for a little while until Dr. Jaeger found him and chastised him for not returning at the appointed time for his medication. Armin settled back onto his bed, lifting the nasal cannula over his head and setting it to the side. It was nice to breathe real air, albeit strange. He was hooked back onto his heart monitor and IV, and he bounced his head from side to side, thinking about how Eren and Mikasa were fairing.

"Tell me how you're feeling, Armin," Dr. Jaeger said. Armin often looked at him and wondered how Eren had come from him. Dr. Jaeger was very calm, his actions very meticulous and yet, very cautious. He seemed to understand very well that Armin loathed to be touched, and thus worked around his skin, using gloves when he had to. He wasn't very talkative, either, which was jarring. Eren could chat your ear off.

"Better," Armin said. "I'm hungry, actually, which is strange."

"I'd imagine," Dr. Jaeger said, smiling. "I'll have some food brought to you. Are you adjusting well to the medication?"

"I think so."

"No nausea?" Dr. Jaeger shined a light into Armin's eyes, and Armin stared forward, knowing this procedure. "Dizziness?"

"No, that hasn't happened since I got defrosted," he said. "That's because of the medication, right?"

Dr. Jaeger nodded, clicking his light off. "Armin, do you remember the last time this happened?" he asked.

"Um…" Armin watched his face, which was a little hazy because he didn't have his glasses. He was pretty positive they were lost for good. "A bit, yeah. Some days better than others. Are you asking if I remember the procedure?"

"I'm merely wondering how your memory is fairing."

"You should ask Marco that," he said darkly, staring blankly ahead of him. "Considering he decided to wipe my memory."

"Hmm…" Dr. Jaeger turned away, typing something into a tablet he had set up on his trolley of infinite medicines. "You are aware of the risks and limitations of brain surgery, I imagine?"

"Of course," Armin said nervously. "If I had it my way, I wouldn't have to go through with it."

"Would you like to try reducing the size of the tumor first?" Dr. Jaeger asked. "Perhaps some radiation or chemotherapy?"

Armin wasn't sure. He knew the risks of all three. Couldn't he choose the fourth option, and not do anything? Ah, this was difficult.

"I'm not really fit to make that kind of decision," Armin admitted quietly. "I don't have the medical knowledge, or the mental stability at the moment. Do what you have to."

Dr. Jaeger watched him. It seemed to Armin that he wasn't so enthusiastic about making the choice himself. Maybe in the end it didn't matter. Was he just going to die anyway? Who knew. And so the man turned from Armin, typing away at his tablet, and then collecting his instruments. Armin felt the drugs taking effect, but even so, he had to wonder about Grisha Jaeger. He seemed to have no more questions for Armin, and now he was on his way.

"Wait," Armin said, sitting up straighter as Dr. Jaeger neared the door. He paused, turning to look at Armin over his spectacles. So unlike Eren in most things, but the eyes… the eyes were echoes of Armin's dearest friend. That was for certain. "Dr. Jaeger, I… I've been wondering something."

"Yes?" The man was patient. Armin would give him that.

He settled in his bed, his hands resting on his folded knees. "Why haven't you asked me about Eren?" he asked. Dr. Jaeger's face grew grim as he stared, his gaze darkening.

"Ah," Grisha Jaeger said, adjusting his glasses. "I suppose it's a rather frightening prospect. Learning of the son who loathes you."

Armin could not deny that Eren didn't particularly care for his father. But even so, it boggled his mind that Dr. Jaeger had no inclination on simply asking. "But you do want to know," Armin clarified. "I mean, what kind of person he is. Right?"

Dr. Jaeger smiled wanly. "I wouldn't be opposed to it," he admitted. He moved closer to Armin's bed. "How has my son grown up?"

"He's in a really good home," Armin said, giving him an apologetic smile. "Sorry, I know that's probably not something you want to hear—"

"No, no." Dr. Jaeger shook his head. "I'm glad. It was… a terrible fear of mine, thinking he might have ended up in an unhappy place. It's good to hear that there was no ground to my fear."

"He was adopted by Hange Zoe, who is a really, really wonderful person," he said. "Eren thinks really highly of them, and Hange… god, they love him a lot. And I mean, I'd know. I'm an empath."

Dr. Jaeger smiled warmly. For once, Armin wished his powers weren't numbed to him, because he'd very much like to understand what the man was feeling. Was he conflicted about this information, envious of Hange and their relationship with Eren? Or was he truly happy that Eren had found a home and someone to love and care for him when he could not? Armin was lost in his guesses, and all his senses were dulled on top of his powerlessness, so he could not evaluate Dr. Jaeger's expression or posture to assume what the man might be thinking about. Which was infuriating.

"Thank you," Dr. Jaeger said quietly. "I… I'm very much a stranger to him. My own son. And I understand his rage toward me— I deserve it. But I could never stop loving him. I hope he might one day comprehend that."

"Why don't you tell him?" Armin asked. "If I vouch for you, Eren will definitely listen."

Dr. Jaeger could only smile, and Armin understood that the smile was of a very sad man who had lost any faith in a future with his only remaining family. "It's not my intent to put Eren through that kind of pain," he said softly. "But thank you, Armin, for offering to do such a thing. After all, you have no real reason to trust me."

"No," Armin admitted, "but you are Eren's father, so I'm disinclined to believe you're all bad."

"Disinclined," Dr. Jaeger repeated, sounding amused. Armin's face heated up, undeniably from embarrassment. He wasn't sure why he was even embarrassed, but he was, and it was irritating. "You're a very smart boy."

"Yes," Armin said warily. He winced. "I don't mean that in a— an arrogant way, o-or anything like that, I mean that I just take to intellectual sorts of things very well and I'm— mm…" His speech was slurred now, and he thought it might be the drugs, but Dr. Jaeger swept to his side, plucking up his wrist and checking his pulse. "Mm… cwa—crap…"

"Armin," Dr. Jaeger said carefully. Armin blinked dazedly ahead of him. "Armin, look at me. Look at me right now. There, that's it. Now, I want you to continue speaking. Very slowly. Get the words correctly."

"Mm…?" Armin sighed. "Like… what…? Do you mean…? Ah…" Armin held his head in his hand, and he felt stupid and foolish and afraid. "This is the… the tum—tumor… right?" He tried to follow Dr. Jaeger's face. He felt like laughing. "Mm… I get it…"

"Armin, I know I've asked this before, but honestly how long has this been going on?" Dr. Jaeger pressed his hand to Armin's head, and when Armin gave a sheepish shrug, he sighed exasperatedly. "May I touch you for a moment?"

"Ick," Armin spat.

"Armin, please?"

"Fine…" he sighed, closing his eyes. He felt Dr. Jaeger's bare palm, a cool touch against his forehead.

"You have a fever."

"Like that's new…?" Armin shook his head furiously. "Dr. Jaeger… you can tell me. If there's nothing— nothing that you can do, I get it, I..."

"Don't be ridiculous," he said stiffly. "This is my job, Armin. I'm fully capable of helping you."

"Ah," Armin said, smiling at him knowingly, "but are you capable of saving me?"

The expression on his face was too good to pass up.

_Maybe I'm more like Marco than I thought_. He got a good deal of glee from how quiet Dr. Jaeger was in response to Armin's cruel question. It couldn't be helped, he supposed. Not everyone could be a hero.

"I'll do my best, Armin," Dr. Jaeger said.

"Sure," Armin said earnestly. "I d-don't doubt it."

He let Dr. Jaeger leave, then, if only to spare him the discomfort of lying once more. Armin wasn't sure if he was truly going to die, but it was easier to tell himself that he was, because it'd make surviving a whole lot sweeter. He'd been so enrapt in the present, he'd never looked to the future. He hadn't any real plans for the future, which was admittedly in bad taste for someone as thorough as him. He supposed it mattered very little now.

He thought he might get a bit of rest before he was sent to get another test done, or something equally unpleasant, but before he even began to fall asleep his door opened again. This time, much to his dismay, it was Marco. Armin made his bitter thoughts plan, and Marco stood with his back against the door, smiling wanly.

"I know, I know," he sighed. "You hate me."

"For good reason," Armin spat.

"Armin, please hear me out," Marco said desperately, his eyes widening. "I make a lot of mistakes, okay? I know. I _know_, and I just…" He laughed shakily, holding his head and shaking it slowly. "God, I'm a fool. I have zero grip on this situation, and I'm sorry for that. I made everything so much worse."

"Yeah," Armin said. "You did."

"I was trying to protect all of you."

"And you did it _beautifully_," Armin snapped. "Please… please leave me alone…"

Marco shook his head furiously. "Tell me how I can make this right," he said, pushing off the door. "I'm begging you."

"Oh, you're begging me," Armin sighed, his voice trailing away into a wisp of a breath. He was sleepy. "Th-that's nice."

"I really don't want the only person in the entire world who understands me to hate my guts," Marco sighed, plopping down on Armin's bed.

"Too late." Armin glowered at him. "You should have th-thought of th-that before you effectively screwed my brain over. Th-thanks for th-that. Asshole."

"Yes, yes," he sighed. "I am a terrible person. I know this. I suppose it's gotten worse in the recent years though. I'm terribly selfish, and I know it, which makes it all the worse. Aren't you ever selfish, Armin?"

"Yes," he said. "But I can control my desire to be driven only by what works solely for myself. Your only goal is to sate your loneliness. That's pretty damn pathetic."

"Thank you," Marco said, rolling his eyes. "Thanks a lot. As if I didn't hate myself enough."

"Did you mentally age _at all_?" Armin asked, his eyes flashing angrily. "You're over th-three centuries old, and yet you act like you're still a teenager!"

"I _am_ a teenager," Marco said firmly. "I was… fifteen I believe, when Ilse gave me her immortality. As much as I've developed over the course of the centuries, my brain didn't finish growing, and so I'm at a bit of a stand still. I don't know, okay? I'm still figuring it all out myself, even after all this time."

"Th-that is bullshit," Armin said, raising his chin at Marco. "Historia stopped aging when she was what? Nine? Ten? And her brain developed just fine."

"Well, I have no explanation for that, do I?" Marco rested his chin in his palm. "You know, considering she hasn't been a subject of my investigation for a good five years."

"Fuck you."

"You've got quite a mouth on you, you know." He was smiling, which made Armin even angrier. "Anyhow, about patching up things with you…"

"You mean," Armin said blandly, "th-the most unlikely th-thing to ever grace th-the earth? Yes. About th-that."

"Well, I was thinking," Marco said, rocking back and forth, "maybe you don't _have_ to stay here forever."

"Wow."

"I know," Marco said, nodding. "A huge sacrifice on my part. Hold your tears."

"You're ridiculous."

"I know that too."

"Seriously, go fuck yourself," Armin said as viciously as he could with his weak voice and weak muscles. He was so tired, he didn't even know if he could move his face to look angry. Perhaps the words meant more if he looked utterly calm.

"What if we made a deal?" Marco asked eagerly.

"I hate your deals."

"A new deal!" Marco clasped his hands together, looking very eager. "You have to stay here, of course, while we treat your condition. But once you get better, you'll be free to go."

"And th-the price of th-that?" Armin asked warily.

"Eh…" Marco smiled wanly. "Well, Ymir really, really likes Historia."

"I hate you."

"Hear me out, please," Marco begged, leaning forward. "It's really not that bad!"

"I'm not trading myself for my sister!" Armin shook his head furiously. "No way!"

"It's not really a trade, more like… a bargain. Trust me, it took a lot to convince Ymir to agree. She was pretty firmly against getting Historia anywhere near here at first."

"Ah, but you got into her head, didn't you?" Armin smiled at him, absolutely disgusted. "God, I hate you."

"Yes, I know, we've established this." Marco waved his hand. "I am the worst there is, right?"

"Pretty much?"

"Well, think on it," Marco said. "You get to go home. Historia… well, her situation is different. She can very well decide for herself, I think."

"Excuse me?" Armin sat up very straight, and he took a deep breath. His vision was hazy, and his body was weak, but he didn't care. He was furious. "Stay… away from my sister…"

"I understand your concern," Marco said gently, "however—"

"_**Stay away from my sister**_!" Armin cried, startled by the mental shockwave that burst from his very words, the shattering feeling of his own emotions scattering across an endless void and then suddenly taking purchase in Marco's open mind. And Marco buckled, gasping in pain as he grasped his head, shaking it furiously.

"Wow!" Marco choked, still holding his head. Armin could hear is own scream rattling in his head. "Wow, that was…! Armin, your power is _amazing_!"

_Not amazing enough to control you_, Armin thought bitterly.

"Unfortunately, no," Marco said, smiling sheepishly. "It's terribly hard to control mind readers once they know you're there. Trust me. If I could control you, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Get out," Armin said breathlessly. "Get out, get out!"

"I'm sorry," Marco gasped, waving his hands hurriedly. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! It was a joke, I swear!"

Armin was close to tears. No, no. Not close. He was really crying. He was sobbing into his hands, and god, god, god! He wanted none of this! He just wanted to go home, but this stupid immortal boy was fixated on the idea that they were like, power soul mates, or something! Armin just wanted to be free of this! Death or life, captivity or freedom, nothing seemed to make any sense, and his world was all upside-down because of it!

"Armin…" Marco said gently. "Oh, Armin, please don't cry…"

"Stay away from me!" Armin choked, his voice muffled against his hands as he recoiled from the taste of Marco drifting closer to him. "Stay back! I— I'll turn your mind to mush!"

"Oh, you couldn't do that," Marco said with a vacant laugh. "You're welcome to try, though."

Armin's sobs were louder now, and his face was wet and sticky. He couldn't even think, because his thoughts weren't safe. Nothing was safe, and nothing was sacred, and he hated it all! He realized how painful his power must be to others, how disturbing and uncomfortable. He realized why Levi had been so disgusted with him at first, why Annie had always been reluctant to come near him, why everyone was so cautious in dealing with him. This was terrible. This was too, too terrible.

"I'm sorry," Marco said weakly.

"L-leave me—!" Armin coughed, and heaved, and he rocked back and forth, his sobs shattering the air. "Leave me alone!"

"It's really not such a bad thing," Marco sighed. "I mean, we already have a connection."

"Sh-shut up!"

"I mean a mindlink," he said gently. "But yes, that kind of connection too. Armin, it's not a coincidence you and Historia received the exact same powers as myself and Ilse. We are so, so alike."

"No…" he moaned, "no, no, no…"

"Yes. You hate it, because you hate me, but it's true. Listen to me, Armin. There's a compromise here, I just know it!"

"Don't you ever," Armin whispered, lowering his hands shakily and staring at them, "get sick of hearing your own voice?"

"Oh?" Marco laughed. "Says the boy who calls himself _Cicero_."

"You called yourse-elf a _saint_!" Armin countered, his breath gone. "God. _God_."

"It was a play on my name," Marco said. "You know, San Marco."

"Y-yeah, I _know_, it's still pretentious!"

"Cicero," Marco reminded.

"I t-talked a guy into killing himself, okay, it seemed fitting!"

"That's endlessly fascination."

_I hate you so much_, Armin thought at him.

_I know_, Marco replied, smiling a hazy smile. _God, do I know_.

"Hey," he offered, scooting closer. Armin recoiled, hiccupping and shaking. "Why don't I show you some stuff I've seen?"

"No."

"Oh, c'mon." Marco smiled at him genially. "I met George Washington. Hell, I fought alongside him. I declined signing the Declaration of Independence."

Okay. That intrigued him. "R-really?" Armin asked, cursing his weak heart for its curiosity.

Marco's smile widened, and he offered his hand.

Tired, weak, and out of willpower, Armin let himself be ensnared. He tentatively laid his bare palm across Marco's.

Later, when Armin is alone, he wondered if Marco is really all that bad, or if Armin was just biased.

He should never have let him inside of his head again. That was for certain. Because now Armin was reeling with the memories that he'd been shown, awed and horrified and exhilarated by seeing history play out as though it was first hand. And that was amazing! Armin could scarcely believe the memories were real, but he was certain he'd be able to tell a fabrication. In his mind, he was more astute. He had no weakened senses, no limitations from his illness. In his mind, he was free.

Years and years of endlessly watching the people you surround yourself with dying could easily drive a person insane. And Marco had been unstable to begin with.

In truth, Armin could not blame him. Because Armin was unstable as well. It was telepathy. There was something cursed about having such immense power. It made the mind crack a bit, which was unfortunate for Marco, who'd had years and years to spoil in it. Armin pitied him in spite of his hatred.

He'd fallen into a drugged sleep, dreamless and dark, and he felt okay for once. It was nice to sleep and eat again. It was nice to feel normal. And boy, did he feel normal next to Marco. It was difficult to part himself from his slumber and the reality around him. He figured anything could be a dream, though he'd gone through blackness for a good while. Uncertainty was familiar.

When he opened his eyes, it was because he was keenly aware of some hazy consciousness knocking upon his own, a hint of spice clinging to his tongue as his eyelids peeled back and his body stiffened. His blankets were soft and warm, and his mind was in a silvery haze, swimming thoughtlessly in the darkness that had shrouded his mind. It had been so nice, and yet he was hating himself a little more and more for being so undeniably weak.

"Go away, Ymir," he said, his voice soft and slurred. It had been quite awhile since she'd visited him, but he was in no mood for her tasteless humor nor her rowdy presence. He was too tired.

"Armin…?"

He bolted upright. In the doorway, there was Ymir, her dark face partially hidden by a hood, and her sharp features shadowed. In front of her was a tiny girl whose large blue eyes echoed his own, her small body slumped and her clothes hanging limply on her frame. She had her hands pressed to her chest.

_No_, he thought wildly, _no, no, no, why is she here? Why…?_

Even amongst his panicked thoughts he couldn't contain his excitement at seeing her face. It'd been too long since he had any interaction with a person he actually trusted, and Historia's face was undeniably a welcome sight. Hastily, Armin pushed away his blankets and attempted to tear the needles out of his skin. Her footsteps were very loud and very hurried as she rushed to his side, planting a hand on his arm and shaking her head furiously.

"Armin, no," she said, pushing his fingers from the tubes. "You'll… you'll hurt yourself."

"Historia," he exhaled, tears stinging his eyes. His lips were trembling pitifully as he stared at her. "What are you _doing_ here?"

She smiled weakly, and it was such a horrible smile, because she put no effort into making it look real. "I wanted to see you," she said quietly. He could taste it in his mouth, the ugliness in her words.

"Liar," he whispered, reaching out and touching her face. His fingers traced her brow, and then moved to the twitching corner of her lips. "You get so antsy when you lie. Your face changes. Historia, you look like… god, it's too dangerous for you to be here!"

She actually laughed at him. He was stunned as she plopped down on the bed, her fingers still gripping his own, and she laughed at him disbelievingly. "Armin," she said, shaking her head, "there isn't much in the world that can be considered dangerous to me. If it's dangerous here, it's all the more reason to get you out."

"I'd love that," he murmured. "I'd love to go home…"

"There's a "but" in there," she said, searching his face. "Oh, Armin. Can't we save you some other way?"

"I don't even know if it's possible for me to be saved," he croaked. She stared at him, and then averted her gaze sharply. She looked remorseful. Sad.

"Aren't we supposed to be heroes?" she muttered bitterly. "This… this is stupid. This is bullshit."

He smiled at her, swaying from side to side, and he was glad to see her face in spite of what it meant in the grand scheme of things. Marco would use her, undeniably. Marco was immortal, just as Historia was, and that was very troubling. Armin found himself crying again, rubbing at his eyes and sniffling. Historia didn't seem to know what to do, and she sat across from him, staring at him with a dumb expression.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Ah, it's not your fault." He wondered what time it was. There was no clock, and there were no windows, so he was at a loss. He was struggling to breathe as a sob perched upon his chest, so he reached over the side of his bed and pulled his nasal cannula over his head. Historia stared at him blankly.

"What's that for?" she whispered.

"To regulate my breathing," he said, his voice weak and trembling as he pulled the oxygen tank closer. "My asthma's been acting up."

"Oh."

Armin glanced at Ymir, who was abnormally quiet as she watched them from the doorway. It seemed to him that she didn't want to take part in the conversation, and was only hovering because she was… guarding…? Yes, that was it. She was guarding the door.

"You look better," Historia blurted. Armin quirked an eyebrow, and she flushed, her pale cheeks turning a faded pink hue. "I mean, your face it's… it's fuller than it was before. And your eyes are brighter." She pressed a finger into his cheek, prodding it gently, and he smiled.

"I'm feeling better," he said. "I'm eating now, and… and sleeping. I know it looks bad with all this stuff stuck on me, but it really is helping a lot."

"I'm glad," she mumbled.

And then, suddenly, she was hugging him. Armin was vaguely alarmed, but not enough that he didn't immediately return the hug, winding his arms around her tiny frame and pulling her very close as she buried her face in his collarbone. It was nice to be hugged. It was nice to feel content in the people surrounding him, safe and sturdy in the arms of his elder sister. Her arms were wrapped firmly around his skinny torso, and her body slumped against him as the front of his shirt became a little damp from her tears.

He was having trouble fighting back his own tears, but he knew it was better for them if only one person cried at a time. So he held the back of her head, resting his cheek against her hair, and bit back a sob as she shook against his embrace. He was now frantically trying to figure out how to save her from Marco's grasp, how any of this could possibly have a happy ending. He stroked the back of her head, blinking as tears slipped through his eyelashes, and he turned his face toward Ymir. He stared at her desperately.

_Help me_, he pleaded.

_I'm powerless here_, _mi muchacho lindo_, she replied.

He wasn't sure what that meant for him, exactly. Ymir was the only one who had any leverage over Marco, and yet she claimed to be powerless. Then what the hell was Armin? He sighed into Historia's hair, and he was glad that they at least had this. He wanted to understand his sister better, wanted to know her like he knew Eren and Mikasa, but he understood he was living on borrowed time. This was enough for him. This little bit of time, and this little bit of trust between them. It was enough.

"I'm sorry I ran away," he mumbled against the crown of her head. "Everyone was probably really mad, I bet…"

She pulled back slightly, sniffling as she rubbed her puffy red eyes. "Eren was angry at Erwin, mostly, but otherwise we were… all really scared."

"At Erwin?" Oh, that wasn't good. Armin groaned, rubbing his face tiredly and feeling the softness of his own cheeks as a tube scraped against his flesh. "Oh no… that sounds disastrous, crap… why couldn't Eren be mad at me?"

"Oh, Erwin took it very well," Historia told him gently, her voice a croak left behind by a sob.

"Of course he did," Armin sighed, "he's Erwin. That means nothing. He's definitely… not okay about any of this. Historia, can you promise me something?"

"Yes," she said immediately. Though, she didn't look so certain. In fact, she had her eyes cast down at her lap, her lips jaw tightening. Armin looked upon her face, and it was strange to see echoes of his own in little features here and there.

"Um…" He took a deep breath. "Okay, if I die…"

"Armin, no," she whispered, her voice shaky. "Don't."

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head furiously. "I know, okay? But it's… it's important that I think about these things. I understand my situation plainly enough that this is something I _can't_ ignore. So please, humor me."

She said nothing. She could only slump, her head bowed, and her forehead pressed to his chest. He was glad she wasn't angry at him, but he wasn't very glad that she was in such immense danger. He supposed there was nothing either of them could do about it now, though.

"Will you promise to… to just look after Erwin for me?" he asked her tentatively. She pulled back, eying him very quizzically, her eyes darting away and back in a bewildered manner.

"What, like a caretaker?" Historia blurted. "Armin, he's a grown man, he's capable of taking care of himself."

"Historia, Erwin has pretty severe PTSD," Armin said slowly. Her eyes widened, and her brow furrowed, and he knew he was only confusing her. "Listen, it doesn't show at all, but sometimes Erwin… I mean, it's very, very difficult to understand him. And his motives. I've been trying to figure him out for years, but he's too complex. One thing's for sure though. He needs stability. I… I know I gave him that, at least. Just… I don't know, pop in on him once a month. Make sure he's eating right."

She laughed at him, her eyes flashing disdainfully. "Like I'd be any help convincing him to eat if he wasn't," she told him coldly. Armin took that slap in a stride. He deserved it.

"I didn't do a very good job taking care of my body," Armin admitted. "I don't want anyone else to make my mistakes. You understand, right?"

She sighed. "I don't know, Armin…" she said weakly, biting her lower lip. "I mean… Erwin's… I mean, I mean, I like him well enough, but… he's…"

"I know," Armin said earnestly. He thought about all the times he questioned Erwin's motivations, questioned how truly he cared for Armin and his safety, but Armin knew now it had all just been senseless suspicion. Erwin loved Armin dearly. It was clear to him now. "He's difficult to love, that's for sure. But find it in your heart, if you can?"

She stared at him. He supposed she was thinking about her own heart, evaluating it in terms of who resided there. Armin could only assume he rested somewhere within it, and Ymir as well. But he could not say if there was anyone else.

"I don't even know if I have a heart," she whispered.

It was his turn to laugh at her. "Don't be stupid," he said, shaking his head. His hair fell against his cheeks, and he was reminded that he was going to lose it soon. "Of course you do. You're just not used to using it, I guess. Don't think too much about it, I mean, it's completely normal." He was struck by something incredible, and he smiled at her warmly. "In fact, I think that is where you and Erwin have a common ground."

"Is he emotionally stunted too?" she asked vacantly. And then she smiled, and he smiled, and she shook her head. "Okay, I guess I'm overstating it a little bit, but still. I'm not… very good at keeping my emotions in check. I don't know what to feel half the time, Armin, and when I do feel things it's… it's an absolute _disaster_."

"Would you be offended if I told you that I think you need a therapist?" Armin asked her, his question innocently posed. The way her expression twisted gave him his answer before she even spoke.

"Um, yes, actually." She gave him a sharp, irritated look. "You need one more than I do."

"Touché," he sighed. "Hey, how about when you go home, you find a really, really good therapist for both of us. How about that?"

"Are you trying to tell me something?" She quirked an eyebrow. "Like, to leave, or something like that? I don't want to leave you and Ymir."

"You can't stay here," he whispered furiously, his eyes darting to the door. Ymir had turned her face to him, and he could taste her anguish even behind the well played mask of firm indifference. Anguish like something burning in an over, apples blackening and crumpling on his tongue. He shuddered.

"You're here," she said, reaching out and grabbing his hands. "Ymir's here. Home can wait a little while, can't it?"

"No," he croaked, squeezing his eyes shut. "You don't understand, you're not… do you even know why Ymir brought you here?" _Do I even know?_ In truth, he did not. All he knew was that it was forever. She was going to be here forever. He couldn't have that.

"I…" She leaned back, her expression falling. Then, she looked a little lost, her mouth opening and closing. "Well… no…" She twisted in place, glancing at the door and meeting Ymir's eye. "Ymir, why _am_ I here exactly?"

"It's a secret, love," Ymir said, shrugging. "Not one I was trusted with. Heh."

"Does he trust _anyone_?" Armin found himself uttering in disbelief.

Historia glanced between Armin and Ymir, her vague blue eyes narrowing acutely. He couldn't tell if she was angry that she was being left out of the loop, or merely suspicious of the entirety of the situation. He hoped it was the latter.

"What is it?" she asked tentatively. "What don't I know?"

"A whole lot," Ymir said, her back resting against the doorframe. "Truthfully, I wasn't supposed to bring you here first thing. But I thought, well, I owed you a helluva lot, y'know? For burning you again."

"Again?" Armin asked, staring at Ymir with large eyes. "Ymir…!"

"Aw, cool it, _chico_," she said, rolling her eyes. "It won't… it _probably_ won't happen again."

"Oh, that doesn't matter," Historia huffed, waving offhandedly. Armin stared at her, feeling uncomfortable at how little she seemed to care about the pain Ymir had caused her. But then, he supposed, he wasn't much better. He thought about Annie, and his chest constricted painfully at the thought of how her guilt must be treating her.

Another loose end he'd need to tie. Only he would loathe to see Annie under Marco's thumb again. He hoped that wherever she was, she was doing better for herself. He hoped she was safe, and free from Marco's terrible influence. He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. There was a sharp sensation prickling his mind, but he couldn't say if it was a headache or just foreign thoughts trying to slither their way into the clouds that had passed over his brain from the variety of drugs injected into him.

"Armin," Historia said, turning to face him. "You don't need to protect me. Firstly, I'm your _older_ sister, so like, I get to be the protective one, right?"

"Uh, well—" he started feebly.

"Secondly, I'm certifiably immortal," she declared. "And you, sorry, you are really not."

"Thank you," he said, blinking in alarm. "Thank you for your perception. Wow."

"You should listen to your brother, _cari__ñ__o_," Ymir called. "He knows better than you."

"Ymir," Historia said, straightening up. "Shut up."

"Ooh." Ymir's grin was a mile wide, and Armin blinked as she gave a dramatic little shudder in the doorway. "Got me all tingly."

"No, seriously, Ymir," Historia said, rounding on the lanky girl who stood with her lopsided smile and her tousled hair and her sandstorm of freckles. "Stop talking. I'm angry at you for keeping me in the dark about this. Whatever this is."

"It's not like I had much of a choice, y'know?" Ymir tousled her hair. "Aw hell. Whatever."

"Armin," his sister said, whirling back to face him. "I won't leave you here. If you can't go home, then I won't either."

"That's idiotic," he groaned.

"No it's not, it's what I want. You can't tell me what to do, you know. Either of you." She waved her hand back at Ymir. "She wanted me to run away way back when I found out you were my brother. I wanted to come home, because I like having a home, and I wanted to know if it was really true. You want me to go home now, because you think I'm… I'm not capable of taking care of myself, right? Well you're wrong. I can make my own decisions. I don't need either of you telling me where to go, or what to do!"

Armin couldn't help but crumble beneath her resolve. "You're right," he told her, his throat dry and his eyes watery. "I'm sorry."

She seemed to slump at his words, as though an apology was utterly foreign to her, and she sighed. "You're both infuriating," she murmured.

"Is that why you love us, darling girl?" Ymir crooned. "Because we make you crazy?"

"Ymir, please," Armin said, "not now."

"Ah, can't help it." Ymir scratched the back of her head. "I try to shut up, but the words, _mi muchacho lindo_. They just come out, I'm powerless to stop them!"

He wanted to make a snide remark, but before he could speak, he felt a tingling presence that he was more attuned to now that he had been here for a good amount of time. It was oddly terrifying, for once, to understand what this presence was, and he grasped Historia's bicep, his heart thundering in his chest as he realized that he could not protect her against Marco. He could try his best to defend her, but he understood his chances. He stared at the doorway as Ymir stumbled back, and Marco entered swiftly, a coy smile already in place.

"Hello," he said cautiously, closing the door behind him. "I'm sorry for interrupting."

Historia turned to stare at him, her eyes widening momentarily. She looked between Marco and Ymir, and she tucked her hair behind her ear as her eyes flitted back to Armin's face. "Um," she said. "So, you're Ilse, I'm guessing?"

Ymir snorted into her hand, and Armin gripped her bicep even tighter. It was alarming to him that she saw Ilse and not Marco. Was he truly going to hide behind that disguise after all that had happened? But he supposed it didn't matter much in Marco's mind if Armin knew or not.

"I'm glad you're here," Marco said, folding his hands carefully behind his back. Armin was astonished at how easy he made it look. Acting like a different person, and yet… Armin felt as though Marco was putting more of himself in his alternate persona than he let on. "Though Armin would disagree."

"Cut it out," Armin said, pulling Historia closer. "Stop fooling around. I told you already, you can't have Historia."

"What do you want me for?" Historia asked, sounding a mixture of curious and wary. A good mix, but it still horrified him that she was even entertaining the thought.

"Your power would be extremely beneficial to our cause," Marco informed her brightly. Armin was growing furious, his eyes narrowing and his breathing uneven and his fingernails digging into his sister's sleeve, begging her to see through this ruse. "Armin is an… odd exception to your power, but if anyone were to share his fate, you are the one person who can save them. In fact, your power is brimming with untapped potential!"

"Oi," Ymir said. "None of that."

"Oh, right, sorry." Marco laughed easily, clapping his hands together. "I'd never do anything without your consent, of course. But, really… you understand your significance, don't you, Historia?"

"Not… really…?"

"Marco!" Armin snarled. "Back off!"

Historia's eyes trailed to Armin's face. "Marco…?" she asked faintly, her voice trailing away as though she simply could not fathom what he had just said. Understandably. Armin leaned back, closing his eyes and wishing for this to all be a terrible nightmare. He wished Historia away to safety, wished himself healthy and happy, wished Marco to be some semblance of sane. But there was no stock in wishing for miracles.

"Ahh…" Marco smiled wanly, his head tilted ever so slightly. He was very plainly unimpressed with Armin's outburst, and it was likely that he was more irritated than intimidated. But Armin couldn't help but wishing he could be as fierce as Eren, or as frightening as Mikasa. If not for just this once, just to get Marco to quit whatever plan he had for Historia Reiss. "Come on, Armin, was that really necessary?"

"Is what your doing necessary?" Armin replied in a bitter voice, his eyes narrowing. "No. I don't think so. No more hiding, Marco. No more lies."

Historia was staring at Marco, her eyes growing steadily wider and her muscles stiffening, allowing Armin to assume Marco had allowed her to see what he truly looked like.

"O-oh," she uttered, her fingernails catching his skin as she clung closer to him. "Um… what?"

"Marco has powers," Armin explained to her quietly.

"Like… like us?" Historia raised her eyes to Marco's, and she frowned a little in suspicion. He was glad for that, at the very least.

"No," Armin said cautiously. "Unlike us, his powers seem to be completely natural."

"Like Mikasa, then?"

"Ah," Marco said, waggling a finger. "Actually, about that—"

"Mikasa was experimented on _in utero,_ right?" Armin cut in, throwing a glare Marco's way. The boy merely smiled wanly, and laughed.

"So perceptive!" He nodded. "Yeah, Mikasa and Levi are special cases. I got their parents' consent, of course!"

"Levi's mother was a prostitute," Historia said, her voice very soft and very distant.

"Yes, and it was much easier to convince her because of that," Marco replied. He shrugged, and Armin felt sick to his stomach simply listening to him. "He was the first, of course, after Ymir. It was a shock to me when I found out we'd be having him again. But I'm glad we had the opportunity, because his procedure was by far the smoothest."

"The tattoos?" Historia asked, sounding a little awed as she leaned forward. "Marco, you run all this, right? That's… that's how you're still alive… and how you know all this, and how you shapeshifted, right?"

"I'm not a shapeshifter," he clarified. "I'm merely what one might call an illusionist. Nothing about me changes— it's simply the fact of your mind being told to see something that isn't really there. Do you get it?"

"Yes," she said. Armin was impressed with how well she was taking it, but he supposed she had little reason to mourn Marco in the first place, let alone care that he was alive once more. If anyone were to be shocked about seeing an immortal boy, he doubted it was Historia.

"He's also a mind reader." Armin didn't quite know how to feel about any of this. He had no contingency plans, no words to sway his captor, and no way out other than death. Of course, getting rescued was a viable option, but he could not account for the choices of his friends when it came to his safety. If they knew his chances of survival inside this facility, would they let him go in order to let him live? He couldn't be sure.

"Like you?" his sister asked, sounding alarmed. "Then… you can't read my mind, can you, Marco?"

"I can," Marco sighed. "Though it's a bit hazy, admittedly. My theory on this particular issue is that Armin's telepathy is artificial, therefore a little more flawed."

"Also _exceedingly_ more powerful," Ymir chirped. Armin stared at her blankly, trying to figure out if she was lying. As far as her emotions and thoughts went, she seemed to be honest, but he was a little lost and a little numb, so he couldn't be sure.

"Really?" Historia asked eagerly, her eyes darting to Armin's face.

"Yes," Marco said slowly, shooting a sharp glance Ymir's way. "You are both vessels to an extraordinary amount of power. Armin's mind is simply a gold mine of power, while you, Historia, are something of a great mass of energy that can barely be contained in human form. You both are so amazing, and I'm really, really sorry circumstances are what they are."

"They are what you made them to be," Armin snapped at him. "Don't play sad, Marco, you made this happen."

"Yes, yes, I know I'm horribly guilty, okay?" He groaned, rubbing his head and frowning up at the ceiling. "I can still be sorry for the misfortune I've caused, can't I? Despite what you think, I have feelings."

"I know you do," Armin said. "I can feel them. You're guilty, yeah, but you're not sad about what you've done. You merely regret the way you went about it. Typical of you."

"You got a hold of your power through all the medication, huh?" Marco's eyes were glittering at Armin in complete and total awe, and it made him squirm a little. "You're simply amazing, I really… I really just can't believe it."

"I don't really know why, I mean you've clearly been observing me for a disturbing amount of time, so…"

Historia stared at Marco, and he stared back at them, merely smiling and looking sheepish. Armin did understand him. That was true. Marco was lonely, and tired, and scared of being alone for eternity. His actions were driven by his need for affection, and his need to be loved. He was trying desperately to differentiate Marco Bodt from the person he really was, and he'd wanted nothing more than for them to just see a girl named Ilse instead, and pin all the blame on her so they wouldn't hate him for what he had done.

Armin understood that this was all a result of centuries of instability building up, and an unlimited amount of resources gathered from simply helping build the entire country from scratch. Marco was too powerful, and too helpless to his own desires. Armin supposed he'd hope to be forgiven if he'd made those same mistakes. The only trouble was that Marco refused Armin's offers of redemption, and continued on with whatever he was scheming. It was endlessly frustrating.

"Historia," Marco said, his voice low and distant. "Can I speak to you? In private?"

And then, the alarms in his head began to sound.

"Fuck no," he snapped. "No way. Historia, don't go with him."

"Why?" she asked confusedly.

"He's going to manipulate the ever loving _fuck_ out of you," Armin hissed, grabbing her hand and squeezing it tightly, "that's why!"

Armin hadn't known her for very long, but truth be told the thought of letting Marco twist his sister's mind made him want to gouge his own eyes out with a spoon. He was desperately trying to figure out what was happening around him and why, but he did understand one thing. Both he and Historia at Marco's mercy was too dangerous to stand. They couldn't let that happen.

"Oh, don't be silly, Armin," she said, pushing herself to her feet. She started forward, and then paused, squeezing his hand back for only just a moment as he grappled desperately for her other arm. "I'll be fine."

"No," he croaked. "No, you won't, you—"

"Shh," she said, staring into his eyes. He realized, disheartened, that she seemed to know exactly what she was getting into. "It's okay, Armin."

"No…" He was close to tears as he fought against the wires pressing into his veins. He was achy and awkward and anxious to hold her back, but he simply did not have the strength, and it killed him. "Oh, god, Historia, why…?"

She glanced back at him, and she shook her head. She slipped her hand from his grasp, and he choked back a sob as she pressed it to his head. He leaned into her touch, thinking of how unfair it was that he was stuck in this useless body, and she would be alone forever because she could not age and she could not die. He missed his family so much it made him sick, and tears swam hotly inside his eyes, obscuring her vacant face as she looked down upon him as though he was something that might fall apart at any moment, and he hated her a little for it.

"I'm just trying to make my own decisions," she said, a broken laugh hidden somewhere in the depths of her trembling voice.

* * *

_lmfao historia and armin just truly have the most unfortunate lives, don't they?_

_i wonder if marco comes off more sympathetic now, or creepier because of how manipulative he is. hm. well, i wrote it specifically so it'd be up to interpretation. love him or hate him, i don't give a fuck. _


	34. the truth shall set you free

**veritas liberabit vos**

**Manhattan, New York**

_a.d. Non. Nov., 2766 A.U.C._

Nobody had said a damned thing on their way from Salem to New York. Not even Connie and Sasha had a joke to spare, their voices seemingly caught inside their throats as they wallowed in the bleakness of it all. Mikasa was livid, and Eren was possessed by some kind of demonic rage, and together they were the most terrifying thing in the world to look upon. Nobody wanted to be near them.

Connie had made no excuses for Ymir's actions. There were none. Until they spoke to her face to face, they had no idea why she'd abduct Historia. There was no quick explanation, and they'd lost their best minds so there were truly no theories as to what the fuck was going on.

All Jean could be thankful for was that Kenny Ackerman was dead as fuck. Also that his mom hadn't called him to make sure he wasn't dead in a ditch, that was really nice.

He recalled the terrible sound of screaming, a faint and feral sound that had awoken him from his sleep and forced him upright, his heart thundering madly when he'd realized that someone was in agonizing pain. In the end, Mikasa's screaming had been worse. She'd been absolutely enraged, so much so that Levi had to drag her back to the Springer home after she'd ran half a mile down the road in pursuit of the car that had whisked Historia away.

Mikasa didn't lose her cool like this. Like, not ever. Jean was horrified by the sight of it, and sickened by the realization that something had gotten to her.

Jean yet to speak with her privately about the matter, but he was lost to her feelings. He felt very lonely and very out of place in this group. After all, Mikasa had Eren to share in her rage, and Connie had Sasha. Armin was gone, Historia was gone, Ymir was probably fucking insane, Bertholdt and Reiner were traitors, Annie was a lost cause, and Marco was fucking dead. And Jean was alone.

It sucked to wallow in his own thoughts, but he had nothing better to do, and everyone was sick to death of talking. Hange had not questioned it, assuming that they were all just tired or angry about what had happened. Which wasn't untrue.

"Okay," Hange said from their place at the front of the plane. "I can't take it anymore. Someone say something!"

"You're an old, crusty shitstain," Levi called to them. His voice was low and his face turned upward. "Does that work for you?"

"Thanks," Hange sighed. "Okay, anyone not Levi."

"It wasn't very fun, Hange," Petra said carefully. "I think we're all just… a little beat at the moment."

"Look, Historia's probably going to be fine," they said brightly. "Ymir likes her a lot, right? And as for Armin, I'm sure he's okay too."

No one had told Hange about Armin's brain tumor. Jean was still living in a dull disbelief himself. It just didn't seem real to him. He wouldn't believe it even if he had a brain scan in his hands as physical proof. He was struggling with trying to believe that any of this was real, and that he wasn't just dreaming up months of insanity and heartache. These things just didn't happen. Right?

_I'm sick of watching people die_, Jean thought, hopeless and yet somehow hoping that this could get better somehow, maybe. His cynicism was gnawing at his insides, but his mind had shut down and now he was left to wonder and wait and wallow in his powerlessness.

The silence stretched on, and no one wanted to break it. It was difficult not to feel like they were trapped and hopeless when they were refusing to address the issue at hand. Armin was missing, presumably in bad condition considering his, well, y'know, tumor thing, Historia had been kidnapped, Erwin disappeared off the face of the fucking earth and no one knew why, Ymir was probably loosing some screws, Reiner and Bertholdt were mysteries, and Annie was lost to them. So what? What now? They were properly fucked over.

At least they still had Petra, right?

Jean saw that Levi had moved to sit beside Mikasa. He observed them from afar, too curious to tear his gaze away, and he waited. There had to be a reason he had moved, and Mikasa had been tense and angry from the moment their flight had taken off. Jean wanted conversation. He wanted to hear Levi's low whispers, even if the words did not carry over to where Jean was sitting. He wanted the sound, the soft murmur, the distant thrum of coherency. Anything to drown out the whirring of engines and the snarl of wind.

But they were silent. How unremarkably surprising. Jean had nearly looked away. He was glad he had not.

Mikasa let her head droop a little to the side, her hair slipping sideways as she cautiously rested her cheek against his shoulder. Levi gave no initial reaction, and he sat stiffly for a solid minute. Then, alarmingly, he raised his hand and rested it on the crown of her head, his fingers nestling in her hair. Quickly he moved on from that, likely self-aware of how publically affectionate he was being, and he instead put his arm around her shoulder and gave her steady support as she continued to use him as a pillow.

It was singularly the strangest thing he had ever seen.

They landed. Just like that. They were there, and they now had to deal with everything that had just happened. Kenny Ackerman's death was on the news and stuff, but luckily he was enough of a terrible human being that no one was pinning the death on them. It was more like a public service, really. Good riddance?

It had been a long few days, that was for sure.

Hange tried to get Eren to open up the entire drive to their apartment, which wasn't very long at all, but considering it was Hange it felt like it was forever and a day. And Eren just kinda sat in a slump, all sulky and quiet and weird. He was likely thinking about Armin. And, of course, his condition. God.

Jean was trying to figure out if he'd actually ever been inside the Hange household, but no. No, this was a first. They were still trying desperately to get them all to talk, but they were all just fucking beat, and they were struggling to find words. Mikasa was hanging close to Eren, and Levi was hanging close to Mikasa, and Connie and Sasha just looked awkward and out of place. Just like Jean. He lumped himself with them just to make himself feel better.

"Y'all are gonna talk to me," Hange declared, opening the front door to the apartment and allowing it to swing open. "One way or another!"

"Our concern right now is finding the location of the facility," Levi said. "Which Petra can do from here, I think."

"Yeah," Petra said. They all shuffled into the apartment, slumped and exhausted. Eren's silence was troubling even Jean. In most scenarios such as this, Jean imagined Eren would start declaring war on some unholy enemy that he didn't even know well enough to openly hate. But his silence was only deepening the gaping hole that resided within them. Losing Historia had hammered in just how serious this was. Perhaps, for Eren and Mikasa, it was like losing their final connection to Armin.

"You can move you know," Hange said, glancing over them all as they stood awkwardly. Eren was the first to break apart from the group, turning left into a living room area thing. Jean was kinda surprised at hell nice the place was, which, like, he was a total idiot for being surprised, duh, Hange was a billionaire. But damn.

He was really reluctant to move, but when Mikasa started forward he felt as though he had to. They had a reason for being here, after all, so they might as well get talking about the shit they needed to talk about. He was really dreading it though.

A loud, bellowing voice shook the entire apartment with its sheer vivacity. Eren shouted from the next room, "_JESUS FUCKIN' CHRIST_!"

They'd all ran like hell, Hange all but diving head first into the living room and skidding to a stop, a gun already in hand. Jean's fingers were at his holsters, and he felt a wave of déjà vu as he paused, the metal cold beneath his skin, and Annie Leonhardt's harsh face staring back vacantly.

Eren was pointing at her. Just pointing. Like a fucking moron.

"Guys," Connie whispered very loudly, "stay cool, but I think that might be Annie."

"Hello," Annie said dully. She was sitting in a pair of baggy gray sweatpants and a faded yellow crop top with some soccer player's name on it. She waved at them.

"Holy shit," Eren gasped, still pointing. His eyes were so big that they looked kinda bulbous in his head. It was weird, because they were creepy and really green. And weird. Yeah. "What the sweet holy mother of Jesus fuckin' Christ are you doin' here, Annie? Lord. Lord fuckin' almighty."

"And that is the most you have said all day," Hange said, knocking Eren gently with their hip so that he'd stop pointing at Annie. "You okay, bud?"

"I think I just had a heart attack!"

"I think you almost just gave everyone a heart attack," Levi told Eren sharply. "Calm the fuck down." He rounded on Annie, his eyes narrowing dangerously. Jean recognized that look. He'd seen it once when he'd called Levi a little grandpa. "And you. How did you get in here?"

"I let her in."

They all whirled around to the entrance of the living room, and Jean was astonished to see the amiable face of Erwin Smith, a knowing smile perfectly in place as he leaned against the doorway. He was also wearing what looked to be sweatpants a plain white tee shirt. Jean had no idea what was going on, but he was a little pissed off.

"Erwin!" Hange cried, sounding actually genuinely enthusiastic.

"Hello, Hange," Erwin said, casting his eyes to them. "I'm sorry I didn't call, we had a bit of trouble with a storm—"

Jean swore rather loudly, clapping his hands over his mouth as Erwin was cut of with a sharp snap of his jaw connecting with Levi's fist. Now, Jean had seen plenty of good fights. Some not so great ones too. But this? This was unbelievably satisfying after days of senseless wonderings and prickling fear and doubt. Jean had never cared for Levi, but right now, Levi was Jean's fucking hero.

"You motherfucker," Levi stated in such a low tone that it was hardly audible.

Erwin straightened up. He moved his jaw around, touching it gingerly before nodding curtly to Levi. "I see you're doing well, Levi," he said. Slowly. Very slowly. Every word looked to be a chore.

"Oh, hell yeah!" Levi bared his teeth in what could be a feral smile, but was likely a sneer. "I'm so fucking peachy, man!"

"Levi," Mikasa called sharply. For a moment it seemed as though Levi was going to ignore her, because he'd lifted his chin up to glower at Erwin. But then he turned away. Amazing. Mikasa truly had him on a leash. That was excellent.

"You're bastard prick, Erwin," Levi said.

"I've been called worse," the man admitted. He glanced around the room, his cool blue eyes flitting over the group of them. And then they narrowed. Very suddenly, and very dangerously. "Where's Historia?"

"Oh, did you not see that one?" Levi scoffed as he stopped at Mikasa's side. "Ymir kidnapped her. Burned her to a crisp while she was at it. Lucky the kid can't die, right?"

"Shit."

Their eyes turned to Annie. She was sitting, her droopy blue eyes wide and distant, her lips drawn back into a slight gape.

"And while we're at it," Levi said, jerking a finger at Annie's face, "what the fuck is she doing here? Didn't she blow a kid's face off?"

"That's a bit complicated," Erwin said. "I'd be glad to tell you all. But firstly you need to calm down, Levi."

"You don't think I'm calm?" Levi tilted his head, and he gave a sharp scoff. "You have no idea how fucking angry I really am, Erwin. None."

"Yes, yes, as troubling as Erwin's disappearance was," Hange said, waving their gun offhandedly, "I'd like explanations for just about everything, so Levi? Really? Not now. Beat him up later."

"Fine."

They were silent. All of them. Jean felt awkward and ashamed just being in the same room as Annie, who seemed completely fine in comparison to the last time he'd seen her. In fact, she was pretty damn nonchalant as she sat placidly on the couch, staring at them with her icy eyes and her blank expression. God, he'd forgotten how infuriating it was to look at her.

"Why don't we start with," Eren said, his voice shaky, "what the hell, Erwin?"

"I had a vision of Annie," Erwin said simply. "Once I had her location I couldn't bear to pass up the chance to speak to her."

Annie scoffed. She sunk into her seat, glowering at Erwin so vehemently that Jean was a little uncomfortable. Erwin didn't seem to mind, though. He just pedaled on through with his explanation, smiling genially.

"It was, admittedly, very rash and foolish of me to do so without confiding in all of you," Erwin said carefully. "I'm very sorry for the trouble I caused."

"Well god damn, that just fixes everything," Levi stated dryly.

"What he's not telling you," Annie said coolly, "is how he tried to kill me."

"Now, now, Annie, that's not entirely true."

"No," Annie said, glancing down at her fingers and examining her nails. Jean noticed they were bitten to the skin, and then some. "No, I'm pretty sure you had some real murderous intent there. Not that I can really blame you."

"I…?" Eren looked as utterly lost as Jean felt. "Shit, I just…? Why…? What the fuck, guys?"

Annie looked pointedly at Erwin. And Erwin just shrugged.

"I was a little furious with Annie," he said slowly, "for a number of reasons. And I do regret how violent I was with her, and I apologized. We've come to an agreement. She's accepted my apology for threatening her life, and I've accepted her apology for freezing Armin."

"She did what?" Mikasa hissed, her entire body coiling in tension. Jean could feel her rage prickling in the air, electric and volatile as she rolled her shoulders and looked very, very ready to pounce at Annie and tear her limb from limb.

"You eased right into that one, Erwin," Annie said dully. "Calm down, Mikasa. He's fine. I think."

"You _think_?"

"He had a seizure," Annie said, her eyes lowering from the group of them back to her hands. "What else was I supposed to do?"

"Holy shit," Eren choked, his eyes going wide and his expression twisting in horror and frustration. "Holy fuckin' shit, Annie, I dunno, maybe wait for the seizure to stop? Sit with him, lay him on down his side? Hold his head so he doesn't hurt himself? Not freeze him, that ain't sound logic, that's fuckin' bullshit!"

"I panicked," Annie sighed, rubbing her face tiredly. "I didn't mean to, okay? I really… I understand that a lot of you hate me. I understand that. I get it. Hate me, it's cool, whatever. But I made a mistake with Armin, and you don't know how much I regret it. That's why I'm here. I want to help you save him."

"And you think we'll just accept you," Mikasa spat, "because you apologized? Not likely!"

"Yeah, Annie, you kinda killed one of us," Sasha said, scratching the back of her head. "Which… isn't cool."

Annie merely sighed. As though the weight of Marco's death did not bother her. As though she felt guiltless for that entire fiasco. Jean was despising her all over again, Ilse be damned.

"Annie," Erwin said, "would you happen to know if we are alone here? I don't want to have to deal with an unwelcome visitor."

Annie blinked rapidly, and she straightened up. "Oh," she said, turning her face about. "I don't feel anything right now. The last time he snuck up on me I was a little preoccupied with Armin's mind to sense him, but usually his presence is pretty palpable."

"What?" Jean asked flatly. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"Ah," Erwin said. Jean's eyes widened when the man set a large hand on his shoulder gently, and looked down at him somberly. "Jean, you might want to sit down for this."

There was a slithering, sneaking, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Everything in him was suddenly riddled with a tense, asphyxiating anxiety, and he felt trapped beneath a closing hand, pinned by the stares of his peers and teammates. He swallowed thickly, looking around wildly in order to get a grip on the situation. But everyone else was looking just as lost as he was.

So Jean, confusedly and uncertainly, wandered to the edge of the couch Annie was sitting on. He eyed her suspiciously, and then, defeated, he sat.

She glanced at him. For a very long, very awkward period of silence, she simply watched him. He was a little terrified and a little irritable, and he could feel sweat prickling beneath his uniform, causing the bulletproof fabric to cling to his skin. He wasn't sure what to do.

Then Annie lurched to her feet, shaking her head furiously.

"I can't do it," she said.

"What do you mean?" Erwin asked. Jean merely sat, bewildered, and he watched her stalk past Levi and Mikasa, her shoulders hunching. "Annie, where on earth are you going?"

"My room," she said.

"What the hell is going on?" Eren asked through gritted teeth.

"Annie, you're being a little overdramatic," Erwin sighed.

"Am I?" Annie stood up straight, and turned her face up to meet Erwin's gaze. Jean thought she might say something else, but she left it there, with that stinging question open to an answer even as she glowered. Erwin stared at her levelly, a mountain in comparison to her tiny form.

"I told you it would be alright so long as you told the truth," Erwin said to her calmly. "What is it? Are you afraid of something?"

"I'm not afraid," she said coolly.

"Then what is it?"

"He's not going to believe me!" She jerked a finger at Jean, causing him to tense up and hold his breath, shocked by the ferocity in her voice. "He'll just deny it, you know he will. It's not like I have proof."

"Is my testimony not enough?" Erwin inquired, looking curious. "I'm almost hurt."

"Your words are meaningless," Annie said, "because they are only based on your faith in me. And, newsflash, Erwin. You're the only one crazy enough to believe me."

"I resent that," he said. He smiled at her calmly, and Jean stared in disbelief as he pressed his hand to the top of her head. She stiffened considerably, but did nothing in response. "I promise you that everyone here will take your story and opinions seriously. I believe you are telling the truth. I expect everyone here to treat you with the same respect."

She didn't understand. That was clear. In fact, she looked horrified, her eyes wide and distant as she stared at the ground, her shoulders trembling slightly as her mouth opened and closed. Jean was reminded how human this girl was. And once more, he pitied her.

"I don't care what the fuck the explanation is," Levi said, "so long as I get one. Right now. Talk, brat."

Annie glowered at him. Her head was still firmly planted beneath Erwin's hand, so it looked less intimidating than rather adorable. She brushed off Erwin's hand with a flick of her wrist, and she whirled to face them.

Loud and clear she said, her voice slicing through the air, "Marco is not dead."

It was kinda like the earth had stopped moving. He felt as though he'd been tossed into the wall at a grand speed, his body crunching and splattering, leaving nothing but a pulpy smear in the cracks and crags of the battered wall. He wasn't even breathing. He was simply staring. His mind had turned off. The words did not process.

There was no way.

"You liar," he said mechanically, his voice stealing the air before his mind had turned on again, and he was breathing so heavily that he could hear his breath rattling inside his head.

She merely stared at him. Stood. Stared. She lowered her gaze. Jean felt like shooting her in the face, the way he couldn't a few weeks before. He could do it now. He hated her enough. How dare she. How fucking _dare_ she!

"I…" It was Mikasa who had spoken. Jean listened to her voice, trying to let the softness of it ground him to reality, but it didn't. It left him feeling empty. "I don't understand. What does that mean?"

"It's bullshit," Jean said heatedly, jumping to his feet. "That's what it means. She's just playing us, don't you see?"

"Jean…" Annie began.

"No!" Jean snapped, pointing at her jerkily, his breath catching in his throat. "No, you don't get to talk anymore!"

She threw up her hands in defeat. "Fine," she said, turning sharply on her heel. "Told you, Erwin."

"Annie," Erwin chastised.

And then she came whirling back, trudging irritably to Erwin's side. She looked miserable. Good. Fucking great. Yeah, she deserved it!

Jean was angry at himself most of all for being such an awful piece of shit.

"Marco is dead," he said breathlessly. He felt his knees wobbling, and nausea churned within him as his mind went reeling back to that horrible night when he'd found Marco's corpse, his brain half shattered, his frozen blood crystallized on his cheeks and in glittering chunks on the hard concrete. "I saw it. I saw what you did to him. You broke him to little bits!"

"He did that," Annie said, holding her arms in such a way that made it appear as though she were hugging herself. "Not me."

"What? What the hell does that mean, what—?"

"It might be best if you explain the origin of this issue, hm?" Erwin offered, touching Annie's shoulder.

"First things first, okay, old man?" Annie was staring at Jean, her dreary eyes fixated on his face. "I'm sorry, Jean. Really. What Marco did to you was… cruel."

"I…" Jean felt dizzy. "You're not making any sense. Marco's dead, and you killed him with your freaky powers—"

"Yo!" Eren snarled, his eyes flashing dangerously. "Our powers aren't freaky!"

"I said her powers, not your powers in general!"

"I don't care!" Eren stepped in front of Annie and Erwin, throwing his arm out and leaning forward with his muscles all tensed up and his teeth bared in disdain. "You don't get to make the call about what's freaky and what isn't about any of us! You don't know what we went through to get these goddamn abilities, so you ain't got any right to give us bullshit about it!"

"Fine!" Jean waved his arm, hissing through his teeth and feeling like he was spiraling down a great black hole, swallowed by time and nostalgia. "Whatever! The point is, Annie killed Marco! I saw the body, I saw the bloody fucking chunks! She did that!"

"It was just pretend, Jean," Annie said.

"Like hell! I held the body, you bitch! It was real!"

"He was _pretending_," she insisted, her eyes just peeking over Eren's outstretched arm. "It's just what he does. His power is illusions. He makes them. He's kind of a maestro of illusionary, and those are _his _words for it. He takes scraps from your mind and builds a world around it, feeds you lies, and you just eat them all up because there's nothing else you can do, not with Marco. He makes you feel like he understands you better than anyone, and then he rips you to shreds when he doesn't need you anymore. He's—"

"Shut up," Jean said, his heart racing, his eyes widening, his body shaking. It couldn't be real.

"He's just bored, I guess, bored and lonely, which are a terrible mix, especially for someone as immensely powerful as Marco. When he's lonely, he creates. When he's bored, he destroys. I guess that explains your friendship, huh?"

"You're a liar!" he screamed, slamming his hands down on the coffee table so hard his palms stung profusely, and the clap of it rung in his ears and rung and rung and rung like a telephone, and Jean could hear Marco's laughter inside his head, and this wasn't fair! How dare she do this, make him doubt his best friend, his dead best friend who'd done nothing wrong! This was all her fault!

"He's the liar!" Annie ducked under Eren's arm, her body suddenly lax and her voice loud and firm. "He tricked you, just like he tricked me! It's just what he _does_, Jean!"

"That just doesn't make any sense!" Jean gritted his teeth. No, Marco had a funeral. A grave! His mother! "I've met Marco's mom, she's a perfectly normal person!"

"Who's never around," Annie said dully, "right?"

Jean couldn't respond to that. He'd lost his voice.

"Yeah, that's because Marco got bored of that illusion. He hates pretending to have parents. His dad hurt him when he was little."

"What?" Jean choked out, unable to believe any of this.

"Have you never seen Marco's back?" Annie cocked her head. And then she rolled her eyes. "Never mind, he'd probably just hide it even if you did. Marco was whipped periodically by his father when he was a child. I don't know the details, but I know he was mortal then."

"Mortal?" Jean shook his head furiously. "No, that doesn't make sense!"

"Are you saying Marco's _immortal _now, Annie?" Eren asked, sounding simultaneously awed and angry.

"Yes," she said. She shrugged, as if it were a simple thing. Yes. Of course he was immortal. That made sense, right? Fuck! "More immortal than me and you, even. He's never going to die, or age, or live a normal life. That's why he created us. So he could have a future that would at least be filled with people just like him."

"Did you say," Mikasa uttered distantly, "created us…?"

"No way," Connie breathed.

"I believe everything she says is true," Erwin said.

"Are you kidding?" Jean shook his head furiously. "No, it's total bullshit! She's just spouting useless nonsense!"

"Jean, you're such a fool!" Annie groaned, rubbing her temples. "Marco was the one that tortured me. Marco shot me, broke my arm, and my leg, and my ribs, and my nose, and he cut me open and spilled my guts out, and then he told you to stop being a hero so you'd never find out that he's an immortal telepath who torments the minds of little kids for fun!"

"You're an actual fucking dog of the enemy!" Jean was waving his arms all over the place, gesticulating with all his might to show her just how plainly ridiculous her story was. "And you expect us to just trust you? Just like that?"

"I wouldn't lie about this!"

"They'd make you lie about this, to throw us off!"

"No," Annie hissed, "this is real. This is real, Jean, I swear."

"How the fuck can I believe you?"

Annie stood, looking a little lost as she squeezed her eyes shut. She turned her head away, shaking it slowly. He thought she'd given up. Then she turned back to him, her eyes snapping open, and she clapped her hands together.

"Marco told me how you two met," she said, straightening up considerably. "And, by the way, he was only in Chicago to keep an eye on Levi and Mikasa. He just happened to stumble into you one day when he was trying to tail Mikasa, and then suddenly you were getting ice cream together because you're cheap as hell, and Marco offered to buy." She swallowed thickly, and whirled to face Mikasa. "You were there too, with Levi. Marco was watching you because he was scared that Levi might be unfit to take care of you, and that's how I know about it, because he wanted to warn me that you might be coming back which, as you can imagine, was a horrifying prospect to my twelve year old self. He told me that Levi bought you chocolate ice cream, and that he was surprised because he actually seemed like a nice father. He was going to leave you alone after that, but I think Jean just distracted him, and suddenly Marco was going to school in Chicago, pretending to be a normal kid. What a joke."

There were no words that could describe the shock he felt. Or the emptiness.

He sat down. He shut his mouth.

There were no more words for him to speak.

He did not object again.

"I don't remember you ever buying me ice cream," Mikasa stated quietly. Jean wondered if she was feeling just as numb as he was.

"It was late August," Levi said, staring at Annie with his cold eyes narrowed. "A few months after the… drug… incident."

"Oh," she said. She didn't question him.

"You know these things," Levi said to Annie, "because Marco— the creator of this entire fucked up experiment— followed us. And I didn't notice?"

"He looked like a twelve year old boy," Annie said. "It's not your fault. You actually might have noticed, but he likely just switched your perception from him to someone else. He's very tricky with those sorts of things."

"So what?" Levi tilted his head to the side, looking a little bored with this entire conversation, as though it weren't Marco they were talking about. "He's a creepy manipulator, like Armin, or something?" Mikasa had elbowed him.

Annie looked at him icily just the same. "No," she said firmly. "I don't think Armin and Marco are the same. Armin still has a conscience. Marco is clinging to the threads of humanity still left inside him. And truthfully, Armin is more powerful. If you've endured him this long, he's harmless to you."

"I'd hardly call that little shit harmless."

"Well, he'll be dead soon anyway," Annie snapped at him, turning away sharply.

"What?" Eren asked sharply, his horror and rage bubbling up in the cracks of his echoing voice. "No. No he won't be dead. What are you even saying? Armin's going to be fine!"

Annie turned to look at Eren, and Jean could see the defeat in her face. "Eren," she said, "Armin's dying."

"Yeah," Eren snapped. "I know that. So what? Doesn't mean he can't beat it!"

Annie sighed, and she shook her head while tossing her hands up. "You know what, think what you want," she said. "I don't care."

"You said you wanted to save Armin," Mikasa said in a low, chilly tone as she stalked very slowly around Erwin, keeping her distance from Annie. "But you assume he's going to die anyway?"

Annie's eyes narrowed, and she stared straight at Mikasa, her muscles clearly taut. "I came here to save Armin from Marco," she said calmly. "I have no say in whether Armin will die from his tumor, Mikasa."

"Well, you just have to believe he won't," Mikasa said simply.

Annie's eyes flashed wide momentarily. She scoffed, and she pushed her bangs from her eyes. "You never struck me as an idealist," she said in a cold, bland voice. "I'm surprised."

"Fuck yourself, Annie."

Annie threw her a casual thumbs up, and then promptly ignored her presence. "Look," Annie said cautiously, turning around and around to face them all, "I don't expect all of you to believe me—"

"I believe you," Levi stated. His voice was flat, and his face was expressionless, but his words seemed surprisingly genuine.

"Well," Annie said, throwing Levi a bewildered glance. "Okay. That's something."

"Actually," Mikasa said, grimacing a bit, "as terrible as I think you are, I… don't think you're totally wrong."

"See, Annie," Erwin said. "This is what happens when you tell the truth."

"That's… pretty much bullshit, actually, but whatever," she sighed, tossing her bangs out of her eyes. "Whatever, Erwin. You win, does that make you feel better? No. Because Armin's still fucked, and we're still standing here."

"There is a way to save Armin, though," Eren piped up, starting forward toward Annie with a beseeching gaze. Jean felt as though he was sinking further into obscurity, as though his presence was going completely unnoticed the longer he stayed silent. He didn't want to speak or be spoken to. He didn't understand how any of this could be happening. His mind had completely shut off. "Right, Annie? There has to be!"

Annie regarded Eren with a long gaze, as though he were some pitiful child. Even though she had to tilt her head to look up at him, even though her shoulders were slumped, she looked to be the one with more authority at that moment.

"I have no idea," she said distantly. "I'm not really concerned about the extent of his life at the moment. Mostly I just want him out of Marco's hands so he can't be manipulated like I was. Marco can be very persuasive, and he's already had Armin for days."

"I'm still trying to wrap my head around all this," Connie said faintly. "You're saying… Marco works with Ilse…?"

"Oh god," Annie sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. Connie blinked rapidly, and he threw his hands into the air defensively.

"Hey!" he cried. "I'm curious!"

"Connie, I established this already," Annie said. "Marco _is_ Ilse. He has a telepathic power that enables him to manipulate what you see, so whenever you saw Ilse, it was actually Marco."

Connie stared at Annie with large eyes. And then he bowed his head. "Then…" he whispered, "Marco saved me…?"

"He saved us all, once," Annie said, shrugging. "Doesn't make him any less of an asshole."

"This is all hurting my head," Sasha whined, bouncing back on her heels.

"Yeah, imagine living it," Annie retorted, looking grumpy and irritable. "After awhile of not having him in your head, the world becomes a little clearer. It's nice."

"I don't think he's ever been in my head," she said uncertainly, rubbing her hair self consciously and mussing the thick brown strands. "Wouldn't I know if he was?"

"No," Annie said dully. "Of course you wouldn't. Unless you're highly attuned to mental presences, you'd never catch him. Hell, I'm not even all that good at it."

"Okay, so wait," Eren said distantly, "wait, wait. You said Marco is… a telepath, right…?"

"That would be the case, unfortunately," Annie said. And Jean simply sat, feeling as though something had gone terribly wrong, and he'd been dropped off a cliff rather rudely.

"So would you say," Eren said, waving his hands hurriedly, "essentially he and Armin have the same power, and stuff?"

Annie frowned. "Well, kind of," she said hesitantly. "Armin's a lot more powerful—"

"Yeah, okay," Eren sighed, "but Marco could like, say, make himself invisible. Right?"

"Yeah…?" Annie glanced around. Connie had made a rather obnoxious choking noise. Petra's stricken face could be seen poking out from behind Hange. Jean had blanched. "Shit, did something happen?"

"Someone burned my house down," Connie said breathlessly. "Kinda."

"Not Ymir, I'm guessing?"

"No," Eren said, rubbing his head furiously. "No, there was a pretty distinct smell of gasoline and, uh, the fire was struck by match, I think. Except none of us saw anything. And… I mean… I could just… feel something, y'know? My first thought was Armin, but… but, I mean, I knew it couldn't be him."

"Armin and Marco have a very similar presence," Annie said quietly. "It's not surprising you mixed them up."

"Why would Marco," Mikasa spoke up slowly and clearly, "want to hurt us?"

"Have you been paying attention at all?" Annie rolled her eyes. "God. No, Mikasa, he doesn't want to_ hurt_ you."

"Uh," Connie said, raising his hand into the air and waving it rapidly until his arm was nothing but a whooshing blur in the air, a soft thrum of friction. "Wait, I'm sorry, what?"

"Oh my god," Annie groaned. "Idiots. You're idiots."

"That's not fair!" Eren gritted his teeth, looking a little disgruntled. "We've been left outta the loop a whole fuckin' lot, thanks! Forgive us for being confused!"

"Marco is a monster," Annie said, turning her back to them. "But I do think he cares about us in his own fucked up way. Everything he's done up to this point, he's done because he believes it's in your best interest. He's very deluded, if you couldn't tell."

"Deluded," Jean repeated distantly with a bitter scoff. Annie shot him a hurried glance, and he felt her pity. Her! Pity him! Oh, this was such a joke!

"Okay, if all of you really believe me," she said, standing up straighter, "then we should probably focus our energy on finding Armin. He's been gone for days, and I have no idea if Marco unfroze him or not. If he didn't, then he's probably fine. I mean, all things considering."

"Yes," Mikasa snapped, "because being frozen solid is the ideal sleeping method, it definitely has my recommendation."

"Yeah, it's actually really helpful," Annie replied in kind. "Especially when you're dying. Fast. And under the thumb of a mind controlling dickhead. So, yeah. Yeah."

"What the fuck is going to happen to Armin?" Eren asked furiously, his fists clenching at his sides. His body was all taut, and his expression twisted, and Jean simply sat, simply sat, simply sat. His mind was still astray, and his heart was still pounding. He didn't understand any of this.

"He's going to die," Annie said flatly. "I thought we established this."

"Yeah, okay!" Eren spat. "Whatever! But if he stays with Marco, then… then what? What does Marco want with him?"

"I don't really know for sure," Annie admitted. "He didn't talk to me about Armin a lot because I didn't want to know."

"And why the hell not?" Levi asked in a clipped tone.

Annie looked to be very tired of standing around, spouting information, and being scrutinized by so many people who could easily just rip her to shreds. She looked tired of the world, and tired of her own voice, and Jean understood. He was tired too. Tired of lies, and tired of hurting, and tired of the world spinning on its head and turning on him when he needed the world on his side the most. He was so lost, and he knew Annie felt the same. But how could he possibly trust her? How could any of them trust her? Even if she was telling the truth, even with her meager proof, what then? What was Marco? What was Jean to Marco? What was this entire institute, facility, experimentation, telepathy?

What was the world coming to?

"When you realize your friend is going to die," Annie said hollowly, "you don't want to know the gruesome details, the hows and the whys and what could bes. I just… didn't want that pressure to weigh on my mind."

"So you just ignored it," Levi clarified. "Wow. You're a bitch."

"Yes, like I've ever pretended to be anything but," she sneered. "Spare me, Levi."

"Annie, could Marco manipulate my mind?" Erwin asked carefully. "Or Historia's?"

"I'm not really sure," she said. "But it's possible. He's had three hundred years to hone his abilities. And, also, he created you. It's likely he knows a way around the gimmicks of Armin's powers, despite the brute strength of his."

"Then we should all be on guard when we go for Armin," Erwin said. "I don't want anyone falling prey to Marco's tricks. Myself included. Jean?"

Jean jumped. He existed. He'd forgotten. He'd blended into this conversation, letting himself drown in the words. He was lost in them, and suddenly he was relevant again, and his chest ached, and this throat ached, and his eyes ached. He could not speak. Or move. He was trapped, pinned under the stares and the stars and the weak little laugh of a friend he'd thought he knew. What was this? What was this terrible world?

"Y-yes?" he asked. Weakened voice made a sound, but he wasn't sure if he was actually speaking or if this was just some mechanical part of him responded to the utterance of his name, the familiar syllables reaching him and his tongue reacting in kind, like something in him just could not bear to be emptied of all feeling, so he had to give back something to the world and he was left with words, and this was so scary, this was so strange, and he wanted nothing to do with it.

He wished he'd listened to Marco when he'd told him to quit while ahead.

_Ilse,_ Jean reminded himself, horrified. _It was Ilse, not Marco. Ilse!_

He wasn't so sure anymore.

"How do you feel about all of this?" Erwin asked cautiously. He was so tentative about it, and it made Jean's head spin. He was astonished that anyone was even asking his opinion, when it was so clear he disagreed. Annie was lying. She was a liar. They were all stupid fucking idiots, stupid, stupid! How could they believe this bullshit? It was just that, bullshit! A dumb fable made up by a dumb lying girl!

Jean didn't know how he felt about it. Empty, he supposed. Empty and lost and trying desperately to cling to his memories, to the happy face of his best friend, his best fucking friend. He was really faltering here.

He was really scared, because he didn't know who to believe or what to believe, and suddenly his whole perspective was shifting.

He tried to remember Marco's face, but all that came to mind was Ilse's fay-like smile, unreality swirling around her like a force field. He was sick by the mental image, sick and sad and sinking into his despair. He was trying so hard to make out the contours of Marco's face, the basic shape, the lines of his nose, but it was all smooth and round and ethereal in design, and Jean was lost in the thought of it.

He staggered to his feet.

"I feel like," he said, his voice shaky and thin, "I need to be excused."

He bolted out of the room fast, wandering around a hall of Hange's apartment and feeling the walls blindly, dizzily, feeling ready to puke. Was this an overreaction? Was he being overdramatic? This couldn't be true, could it? Then why was he rejecting it all so vehemently?

Why couldn't he remember Marco's face?

The fact of it was that Marco had always been a bit of an enigma. Jean had never known, or thought to really care, what Marco was thinking. And Marco… Marco always knew what to say. What to do. How to act. How to speak. When to speak. The words to say. Marco knew everything like it was nothing, and Marco had the world at his fingertips.

Marco had scared Jean more than Jean could say, but he'd never thought it was a serious fear until today.

Jean stumbled into a bathroom, flicking on a light and slamming the door shut as he turned on the faucet at the sink and stuck his head under the cool spout of water. It collided with his hair, plastering it to his cheeks as the stream guttered and spat, wavering all around and flicking splatters of water all across the bathroom walls and the mirror and the granite counter of the sink. Jean listened to the water thrum against his head, sinking into his skin and freezing his thoughts solid. If Marco was a telepath, what had he heard inside Jean's head? It was just ridiculous! How could Marco have been friends with him after that!

After ten minutes, Jean's neck was cramping so bad that he'd begun to cry, and he shut the water off, his hair dark and limp against his ruddy flesh as he peered into his hollow reflection. He was not one to mope often, but lately it was all he could do, and now he felt like he'd just become a different person entirely.

Ah, shit. This was bullshit.

He ran his fingers shakily through the soppy strands of his hair, feeling a little like a hot fucking mess as he took a deep breath and shook his hair out. The resulting splash of water slapping the walls and the floor and the mirror and his own fucking face was inspiring. Truly.

Jean ended up sitting down, his teeth chattering a little and tears stinging his eyes as he fumbled with his phone. He propped his back against the tub, his wet fingers sliding against the screen. He'd gotten a new phone, of course, since his old one was stolen. He'd managed to retrieve all his data. Including his pictures up until within a few hours after his phone was stolen.

_Ilse_, he thought, staring at the picture of a photograph he'd taken in the woods. A dark, blurry face stared back at him vacantly. He didn't understand any of it.

And then he realized. This was not Ilse. Of course, of course it wasn't. It was Ymir. And Ilse had known that.

Jean was shaking terribly, his breath echoing in the tiny space, his heart thundering and his head numb from the bitter cold and the bitter truth.

"How sweet," Jean breathed, his thumb pressing hard enough against the screen to make it crack at any given moment, moisture gathering around his skin as he flicked the picture from the photograph of the younger Ymir to a candid shot of Marco sleeping rather soundly on Jean's floor not too long ago, his mouth parted into a snore and his freckled face so content that it hurt to look at him. He looked nothing like the beautiful Ilse, the sweet and the deadly, the fay-like and the raw. He just looked like a dumb kid sleeping on the floor because his best friend was too stingy to give up the bed.

And yet, Jean could hear Ilse's voice inside his head.

_Is this a picture of me? _How amused she'd been. How amused she'd sounded. Jean's breath hitched in his throat. _How sweet_.

He wanted to throw his phone at the wall. Instead, he found himself flicking hurriedly though his photographs, his eyes searching them wildly, picking apart each small thumbnail and finally coming across something from a year or so before. It had been the summer, and because of that fact, Jean and Marco and Mikasa had gone swimming often enough. Jean found a picture of Mikasa he'd taken while she and Marco had been attempting to teach a young boy how to dive at their local pool. Mikasa had been the focus of the photo, of course, and it had been one of the few astonishing moments when she'd turned to him and smiled. Marco was more candid, because half his back was turned toward the camera as he attempted to demonstrate the correct diving technique to the seven year old.

Jean held his breath as he moved his index and thumb across the screen, enlarging the space of exposed skin on Marco's back.

A short knock at the door had jumping in alarm, his phone slipping between his watery fingers and clattering to the tile floor. He stared at the door in utter shock, the breath he'd been holding knocked out of him, and he blinked a few times to hold back the tears. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair!

"Jean?"

The voice was clipped and distant and somehow sweet.

"C-come in," he stammered. Mikasa entered the bathroom, her expression somber. She closed the door behind her, her dark eyes following the mess he'd made. Water everywhere. She was lucky she hadn't slipped upon entry. But then, it was Mikasa.

"I'm worried about you," she said. Right to the point, typical of Mikasa.

"I'm…" He swallowed thickly, unable to lie, and he glanced away from her face. "I'll deal with it."

"That's the thing, Jean," Mikasa sighed. "You shouldn't have to."

He didn't know what to say as she pushed off the door, carefully avoiding the puddles of water he'd left upon the tile floor, and she settled down beside him with her back pressed to the tub and her face angled away from the broken mirror that showed Jean his own miserable face in a thousand different ways, distorted like a fun house mirror, and showing him how frightened he really was.

"Marco was my friend too," Mikasa mused aloud. "I was never as close to either of you as you were to each other, but… I did consider you to be my friends. You hold a special place in my heart for that reason."

Jean stared at her. He closed his eyes, and he shook his head. "It doesn't really matter anymore," he murmured.

"Oh, shut up," she said breezily. "Of course it matters. I assumed one of my friends was dead, only he's actually responsible for all of the terrible things in our lives. And I've been ignoring my other friend for months." She rubbed her forehead irritably, and she grimaced at him. "I'm sorry about that. It didn't occur to me until now that I was being unfair to you. I was just… so… elated, I think, to be around Armin and Eren again, I just forgot that you… that you and Marco might have missed me."

"We did," Jean whispered.

"I'm sorry," she said gently. "I know it's not worth a thing, but I am."

"It means a lot," he told her earnestly. "Thank you, Mikasa."

"Yeah, sure." She was staring ahead of her glumly, and Jean realized this was probably the first time they'd been alone since she'd moved away. Months and months, and she hadn't changed at all, really. "You don't believe Annie."

"I…" His voice faltered. What did he believe? The world was hardly turning any longer. He'd lost himself somewhere, and now he was sitting with a numb mind and an aching heart. "I don't know. Maybe I do. It's hard to imagine…" He gritted his teeth, and then shook his head furiously. "No, it's _impossible_ to imagine Marco could be capable of doing what Ilse had done."

"I don't want to believe it either," she sighed. "But… I don't think Annie's lying."

"I know you don't."

"I hate her," Mikasa admitted. "Really, she's the worst. I don't want her anywhere near Armin."

"Understandable."

"But she had no reason to return to us otherwise," she said. "And no, I don't think she's here to feed us false information. She's not interfering with out plans at all. We're heading out in a few hours once Petra gets the coordinates. All Annie's done is given us an idea of what we're going up against."

"Marco," Jean clarified, turning to face her with large eyes and a crippling expression. "Mikasa, do you know how crazy this sounds?"

She glanced at him sharply. Yes, of course she did. But the fact of their situation was that it was already incredible and impossible and insane. They had already accepted that fact. But the idea that Marco could be some villainous mastermind just didn't sit well with Jean.

"Think of it this way," she said dully. "Marco's alive. Isn't that what you wanted?"

"No," Jean hissed at her. "No way. Not like this."

"I'm really sorry, Jean," she whispered. "I know that this… this is really difficult for you. But whether it's Marco or not, we have to be prepared. I'm not going to forgive anyone who has put us through the kind of hell we've been through. You shouldn't either."

"I don't know if I'm capable of that kind of forgiveness," he admitted distantly. "I don't know if I could… could look Marco in the face again, see him alive, and be happy about that, I don't know if I could do it."

"Don't be happy," Mikasa said fiercely, her brow furrowing. "Be angry. You deserve that much, after all he's dragged you into."

"But I don't want to be angry with him!" Jean rubbed his face furiously, warming it with the friction of his skin scraping his wet, flushed cheeks. "What if he had a good reason?"

"Jean," she said. It was a rebuking sort of hiss, and the air around him got thicker as he tried to breathe normally, and found himself choking on every sharp intake.

"Okay, well, shit," he sighed, "didn't he like, cure you guys of cancer, and stuff?"

"I wasn't sick," Mikasa said, her eyes narrowing. "And also, look how well that turned out. Look what he did to Annie."

Jean cringed. Oh, he didn't need the reminder. The sound of Ilse's voice was grating his mind. He wanted to puke, but he couldn't move, and he couldn't breathe. He tried to imagine a world where none of this was real, where he and Mikasa and Marco could just be normal friends. Why had he sought after this world of heroes and miracles?

"I don't know what to do," he whispered. "What if it's true, Mikasa? Why would Marco do that to us?"

"I don't know." She shifted beside him, looking uncomfortable, and he could not blame her. If Annie was telling the truth, Marco had been spying on her for years. "I don't think I want to know."

"How could you not want to know something that important?" he asked, staring bemusedly into her eyes. "Look, contrary to popular belief, our lives aren't actually fuckin' comic books! If it's Marco, then… then there's a reason he did all of this!"

"Sometimes people just aren't right, Jean," Mikasa told him gently. "At best, Marco's deluded. At worst, he's a monster. Either way, his actions cannot be excused. You understand that, right?"

His heart was drumming in his chest, and he was dizzy from the strangeness of it all. Marco? A monster? That was ridiculous!

"Yeah," he lied, swallowing thickly. "Yeah, Mikasa, I… yeah. I get it."

Yeah, he didn't get it.

Inevitably Petra had coordinates within like, two hours. Until then, Jean and Mikasa left the bathroom, and Jean was hassled by Connie and Sasha about if he was okay. Like, fuck? Nah? No, he wasn't? He told them to get off his fucking back, because it was annoying, but they wouldn't leave him alone.

So they played a nice competitive game of cards until they were ready to leave.

Like, all of them.

Even Annie joined in around the point where they started playing Bull.

Jean stuck a four of diamonds into the pile at the center of their circle on the floor. "One three," he lied.

"BULLSHIT!" Eren bellowed, looking far too excited for his own good. Jean stared at him.

"Fuck," he mumbled, staring at the pile of cards dimly. "Fuck you, man."

"How'd you know he was lying?" Connie asked Eren eagerly.

"It was obvious," Annie said, peeking from over her own hand of cards. Jean scowled at her as he pulled the pile closer to him.

"Yeah," Eren said, grinning broadly. "Jean hasn't got a poker face. Just a horse face."

"You wanna fucking go, Eren?" Jean spat. "Because I've got a bullet with your name on it."

"Go ahead," Eren said with a shrug. "Not like I'll die, or anythin'."

"Don't test that," Annie warned him.

"I know, I know," Eren sighed, waving at her offhandedly. Then, he perked up, and turned to face her. "Hey, do you ever heal around the bullets, and then later you realize it and you're like, aw sweet motherfuckin' Jesus shit, I gotta dig that out?"

"Yeah," she said, glancing at him, "actually. Though, those wouldn't be my words for it."

"Well, yeah, I mean you ain't me so I'd think you would think different?" He scoffed. "Anyway, I hate it. It takes forever, and it's really painful."

"Yes," Annie agreed somberly. "Not fun."

"You guys are weird," Sasha said, tossing a card into the center of their circle. "One four."

"Two fives!" Connie hooted slapping two cards down.

"One six," Mikasa said, placing a card face down over Connie's.

"One seven," Eren said, moving to put his card down.

"Bull," Jean snapped.

Eren glanced at him. He grinned and turned his card over.

Fuck.

"Ha!" Eren reeled back, whipping the card at Jean's face. He ducked, listening to it whizz over his head. "Nope! Sucks to suck, asshole. Take the pile."

"Fuck you, man," Jean sighed.

"Yo," a cold, monotonous voice spoke up from directly behind Jean. He jumped, turning slowly to face Levi. He was leaning in the doorway. "We're about to head out. Also, looks like it'd be best if Jean didn't get roped into more debt."

"Oh, we're not playing for money," Connie laughed. "If we were, Jean'd owe us each like, a few hundred a piece, probably."

"Shut up, man."

The fact of it was that he was terrified of leaving this place. What even lay beyond their little card game, the banter and the laughter and the carefree smiles? They'd been trying very hard not to think about the extremity of the mission they were already involved in, and now it was all coming back in a rush of frantic emotions that stirred inside Jean like a tempest.

The missing siblings, Ymir's behavior, the possibility of Marco being evil. It was like a terrible dream. It was like something Jean could make up, and laugh about with his friends on a Monday morning. _Hey,_ he'd say, _I had this weird as fuck dream last night!_ And they'd just laugh. Him and Marco and Mikasa. As it should be.

His ideals never fit his reality. He didn't think idealism suited him much.

"Hey," Connie said, clapping him on the back. "Don't sweat this, Jean. You know you've got us no matter what. Right?"

"Yeah," he said in a soft voice, feeling shaken and a little disbelieving. "I mean… yeah, shit. Thanks."

"Duh," Connie laughed. "Oi, Pet, where exactly are we headed now?"

Petra was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a cup of tea. She would not be joining them. Levi wanted someone to stay behind to guard Petra, but Erwin advised against it. Jean didn't know how to feel about that. Without a guard, would Petra be okay? She was still a target after all.

Marco's target.

How weird was that?

"Hey, kiddo," Hange said, suited up for once. Jean could not remember the last time he'd seen them in costume, but the lab coat suited them, and the goggles were a nice touch. Hange ruffled Eren's hair, much to his dismay as he ducked their grasp and shoved them away.

"Quit it," he mumbled, flattening out his hair. "So, we're leavin' now, right?"

"Yep," they said, their eyes bright behind their goggles. "Erwin will be piloting, though. I'm thoroughly exhausted."

"Yeah, with reason." Eren folded his arms across his chest, and he looked a little grumpy as he stared at his adoptive parent, his thick eyebrows furrowing. Jean watched, feeling empty and stunned, because he recalled his own mother, and their distant relationship at this point in his life.

"Do we really need this many people to get Armin and Historia?" Jean asked weakly, feeling out of place here. Did he belong anywhere now? He was at such an odd place within this group, and he… he knew he wasn't up to this challenge. Facing Marco? Even if it wasn't Marco, it sure as hell was intimidating to even think about facing his not-quite dead friend.

"I'd like to have everyone at hand," Erwin said, appearing behind Hange as though from the depths of fucking hell. Jesus. "We truly are not equipped for a sneaky escape. Whatever we are facing, we're facing it dead on."

"Considering we lost our telepath," Levi said dully from Mikasa's side, "and Erwin has difficulty seeing Armin, we're going in dark."

"Sounds exciting," Sasha said, smiling feebly. Jean could tell she was scared, but she put on a pretty brave face, her shoulders lax and her eyes bright. It occurred to Jean that someone else might die today, and he felt sickened by the thought.

"Is your suit bullet proof?" he asked her, unsure and a little frightened for her safety. He understood the restrictions of his own suit well enough, but Sasha was wearing something that was tailored to her prowess in archery. It didn't look quite as sturdy as Jean's uniform.

"Uh, yeah," she said, glancing down at herself. "It should be?"

"Eren," Hange said suddenly, "uh, about Armin's… illness—"

"Don't wanna talk about it," Eren said firmly.

Hange looked at him, clearly startled, and they leaned back. "Eren," they said gently.

"What?" Eren shrugged them off, huffing indignantly as he glowered ahead of him. "Shit, stop givin' me that dumb look! I just don't wanna hear this shit right now, Hange, okay? Let's just save him first, and then worry about that stuff!"

"You're awful grouchy," Hange cooed. "Dude, I have actual news to talk to you about."

"Whatever," he said, waving them off. "You can tell me when we get back. I wanna get Armin. Now. Like, let's go. Let's go, let's go—!"

"Shit, you're annoying, kid." Levi bumped into Eren as he passed him, motioning for them all to follow him. They did, obediently, if only because they were lost on what else to do and they were stuck in this position of following orders. Jean wanted a break from this. He wanted to go to sleep, and to see his mother, and to cry by himself. But the anxiety was killing him, and now he had to know. Was it Marco? Was Marco truly the cause of all this suffering?

Jean had always been too selfish to care what the source of the injustice was. But now how could he possibly turn the blind eye?

It was so difficult. Being human.

He was extraordinarily unextraordinary in a cluster of frighteningly extraordinary people. He was the powerless fool, and he was losing himself in his own heartlessness. What was loyalty, anyway? He didn't understand. What choice did he have if his best friend asked him to turn on his team?

He couldn't do that, could he?

He was a hero after all.

_Ilse wanted me to quit_, Jean thought as he settled on a plane once more. _The universe was dead set against me becoming anything extraordinary_.

Marco had always told him that was what made him so special. His pure and simple normalcy.

It made him want to strip himself of everything that could possibly constitute as normal.

He'd welcome any change if it meant he could become the opposite of whatever Ilse Langner had saw in him.

If that meant Marco as well, so be it.

Apparently the facility they were in was in Virginia. That was not a long plane ride. Jean didn't have enough time to mull over his existence, which was pretty shitty, because he had a lot to think about. His heart was in limbo, and his mind was clouded over, and he was kinda a poor shot to begin with. He was dead weight. He was the weak link, and they hadn't even begun the mission yet.

He missed being confident in this field of work. He wanted to be able to proudly proclaim his heroism, but now he felt like it was useless. They weren't fighting villains, they were fighting dead friends in the dark, and Jean wanted nothing to do with it.

But here he was, listening but not listening to Erwin explain the plan.

Plan? What plan?

Oh, right.

Jean was the plan.

He felt Annie's eyes on him.

So this was it.

This was how it ended.

Walking up to the front door of the facility that held all the fucking secrets of this entire fucked up world with the supposed murderer of his best friend at his side.

He expected to be shot before he even made it to the doorway.

"This is a terrible plan," he mumbled, wishing dearly for the comfort of Hange's apartment, for the flooded bathroom and the lost game of Bullshit.

Annie said nothing. It seemed to Jean she didn't very much like being used as bait either. Her tired eyes moved from Jean to the door and back. She looked like a sleepy child who'd been awoken abruptly in the middle of the night, small and grumpy and on the verge of a tantrum.

She stayed silent though, which was even worse. Jean wished she would have some sort of reaction to anything, begged her mentally to snarl and thrash and show her hatred, but she just… didn't. He was already thoroughly confused, and her oddness was not helping. It'd be easier if she was an obnoxious bitch, but Annie was quiet and introverted by nature. Jean didn't really know her at all.

The door opened, and Jean shot a glance behind him, though he could not see the jet. He wasn't sure if the jet was even still there. The second part of Erwin's plan wouldn't work unless Connie was quick as hell. Even for him.

Jean sighed, glancing up at the empty doorway that was beckoning them to enter like they were stupid or something. It had been opened remotely, so he was still lost and a little scared. Annie merely walked right on ahead through the doorway, and Jean yelped, following her quickly and trying to keep at her heels.

"Annie," he gasped, grabbing her arm and halting her in the middle of a rather bleak white hallway. She shot a look up at him, a fiercely cold glare that struck him to the bone and resounded on his nerves like the percussion of piano strings. He swallowed hard, and blinked rapidly. "Don't you think we should take this a little slower?"

"He'll find us either way," Annie said, yanking her arm from his grasp and whirling away. She was wearing her blue and black tunic, a sign perhaps that she was back on their side. What had been her hero name again? Lionheart?

That was a fucking joke.

"Look, I'm still hella out of the loop here," Jean said desperately. "I don't really know anything about any of this."

"Then why are you even here?" she asked him sharply, whirling to face him. He was stunned by the display of emotions on her pinched little face, the frustration and anger and flash of fear. "None of this has anything to do with you. You're just a dumb kid who made friends with the wrong people. Why are you still helping us?"

Wasn't that the question?

He'd been weighing it in his mind for hours. Why did he care what happened to these people? Half of them were just acquaintances. None of them even needed him. He was weak and fragile in comparison to his teammates, and his skills were minimal at best. Even Sasha, who was just as human as he was, was a far better shot than him. He was nothing in this grand scheme of heroes and monsters.

But he didn't think he had anything left to lose.

And, if he did, he didn't want to lose it. Not to an illusion, not to a friend, and certainly not to his own vicious weakness.

"Why didn't you come with me?" Jean blurted. He avoided answering her question, because the words would not come to him. He was sick of questioning his own motives for heroism. He was selfish enough, and like fuck he was going to let her make him second guess himself.

She looked confused, and she leaned back, her pale pink lips parting slowly.

"Back in the woods," he explained hastily, waving his hand, "when you'd been hurt real bad, and I… I was trying to help you, to get you out of there, and like… away from all this…" Jean waved once more, his hand whooshing over his head in a strange flourish. "But you didn't come. And I just… I mean, it scared the crap out of me, y'know? You were really hurt, and I didn't know how to help you, and you wouldn't let me help you anyway! Why was that, Annie?"

She stared at him with dull eyes and parted lips. Meagerly, she shrugged, her eyes trailing from his face. He felt hopelessly sad looking at her. He wondered if she was just as depressed as he was.

"I don't know," she said.

They stared at each other vacantly.

She hunched over, scowling at the floor.

Then, he laughed. He covered his mouth as she shot him a sharp look, but he couldn't help it, and he continued to laugh until she shoved him into a wall so hard it left a stinging ache on the surface of his ribs. He blinked the tears from his eyes, and he grimaced.

"I don't know either," he told her, his voice strained from pain and laughter. She continued to stare, and he wondered what she was thinking.

"Well," she said, straightening up. She hugged her arms, looking a little sheepish and a little irritated. "This sucks."

"Yeah," he said, rubbing his chest, still wincing a bit. "Shit, you're strong. Do you lift?"

She glanced at him, looking bewildered. "Uh," she said, "sometimes? I guess? When I have time."

"I think you broke one of my ribs."

"Well, you're an asshole, so you deserved it," she said curtly.

"Yes, I've been told," he sighed, "numerous times. By the way, do you think this will come down to a fight?"

"Maybe," she said, hugging her arms tighter. She didn't want to look at his face, it seemed, and he felt anxiety cripple him as he frowned down at her. He didn't know what scared him more. The thought of an oncoming skirmish, or the idea that he might have to fight Marco. "If it comes down to it, I'll try to protect you."

"I don't need your protection," he told her with a scowl. "I'm not a baby, I can actually fight a little bit."

"Wow," she cooed, pressing her long blue fingers to her chest, and sneering at him, "that gives me so much comfort."

"Aw, fuck you, man."

"You can't even kill anyone," she scoffed. "Just… leave this to me. Stay close. Marco's not much of a fighter anyway."

"He's better than me," Jean admitted.

"Yeah, well…" She gave him a once over, and turned abruptly away from him as she stalked down the hall. "That doesn't take much."

"What?" He stood, bewildered, watching her go with a surprising amount of speed. And then he flushed angrily, and stomped down the hall after her, his fists clenching at his sides. "Hey! Why the fuck are you so bitchy?"

"Quiet down," she hissed at him.

"Fine," he hissed back. "Why the fuck are you so bitchy, though? For real? What is your damage, ice girl?"

"It's just my personality. Get used to it."

"It's annoying."

"_You're _annoying."

"You're almost as bad as Eren," Jean declared. "Except shorter, and quieter, and maybe smarter."

"Oh, maybe?" She rolled her eyes, and turned sharply left. "That gives me so much comfort. Maybe being smarter than Eren Jaeger. At least that's one thing I have on you."

"_What_?" he cried, his voice breaking miserably. "I'm way smarter than Eren!"

"Unlikely," she said coolly. "He has a lot of academic awards in his room. And you're failing English."

"How do you know that?" Jean asked flatly, watching her back. She didn't answer. "You're so creepy!"

"Yeah, yeah…" She paused. She looked around. Jean realized they were still alone in a huge hallway, and no one had stopped them since they'd walked in.

"Are we lost?" he asked her weakly.

"Yeah," she said.

"Oh." He took a deep breath, and he reminded himself that he was calm, he was okay, he was fine. "Cool. Great."

"Yeah, man, it's a fucking party."

"That snark?" Jean eyed her irritably. "Not appreciated!"

"Oh my god," she murmured, massaging her temples. She took a deep breath, and Jean watched as she relaxed, seemingly calming herself down enough not to beat the shit out of him. Nice. Good to know. "You're so stupid, Jean."

"Thanks, bitch."

She threw up her middle fingers at him, and he mirrored her on reflex. They stared each other down for about a minute, and Jean was actually pretty amused. He didn't know how she felt, but bantering with her helped him get his mind off the imminent confrontation they were about to have. And she wasn't such bad company, even though she was a little infuriating.

Jean let out a sharp cry of alarm as the sound of frantic footfalls filled the hall.

"Annie?" called a booming, breathless voice.

Both Annie and Jean turned very slowly to the mouth of the long white corridor. Standing there with large, bewildered eyes was Reiner Braun. Jean stared at him blankly, his two middle fingers still extended at Annie's face. He glanced at her, and she glanced back, both of them poised in rather incriminating positions with their shoulders hunched and their middle fingers flipped up at each other.

They carefully dropped their hands, and Jean took a careful step to the side as Reiner came barreling down the hallway, scooping Annie up into a tight hug. She looked a little astonished and uncomfortable, her body tensing up as he lifted her off the floor and laughed in disbelief.

"Shit!" he cried. "Shit, Ann, you actually came back! Bertl, he was all like, nah, she's not coming back after what happened to her, but no! You're here!"

"Y-yeah…" She seemed to be unsure as she was lowered back to the ground, but she hugged Reiner tentatively back. "Yeah, I'm… I'm here."

Jean rocked back on his heels, feeling like he was the third wheel. Which wasn't unusual nowadays, but damn. He stood awkwardly, wondering how long they'd have to play nice until everyone else came barging in. _I might be able to get to speak to Marco alone_, Jean realized, his heart dropping at the thought. It sunk into his stomach like a heavy stone, pressing deep and cutting him sharply. He found it difficult to breathe. But then, did he really believe it was Marco?

Did he really want it to be Marco?

The more he thought about it, the more exciting the prospect of having him alive was.

But there were so many unanswered questions…

"Okay, let go of me," Annie said, shoving Reiner away sharply. He was smiling dopily at her, and then he glanced at Jean.

"Uh," he said, blinking confusedly. "Annie… why exactly did you bring him here?"

"He was in the neighborhood," Annie said coolly. "Thought he'd pop in for a visit. Where's Armin?"

"Dude, you're wearing your Lionheart suit thing," Reiner said, pointing at her accusingly. "Hey, what gives!"

"Hey," Annie said, scowling at him. "Reiner. The last time I saw Armin he had a seizure, and then I literally froze him solid. So please, spare me. Where is he?"

Reiner looked a little alarmed, and he turned to Jean and raised his eyebrows, pointing to Annie and mouthing, "For real?" Jean couldn't help but snort.

Annie hooked her leg around Reiner's knee, ducking under his arm and using it for support as she used his weight to leverage him up into the air, and prompt topple over her shoulder head first. He didn't even have time to scream as he landed in a disgruntled heap. Jean merely stared, properly stunned and terrified.

"Come on, Jean," Annie said, stalking forward. Jean stared after her distantly.

"Good luck, man," Reiner croaked, untangling his limbs somehow and sitting up on the floor. He rubbed his ribs. "She's great, but she has no idea how to deal with people."

"I've noticed," Jean said feebly.

Reiner shrugged, rising to his feet and groaning. "Ow," he sighed, rubbing his calves. "Fuck! Annie, that hurt!"

Annie just kept walking. Reiner sighed, glancing at Jean and promptly shrugging. "Armin's downstairs," he said, starting forward slowly. "He's sleeping at the moment, I think, but I don't see why we can't go see him. Come on, I'll—" He started forward, and he paused, frowning a little. "Okay, where'd Annie go?"

Jean felt a prickling nausea in the pit of his stomach as he stared ahead into the hallway, and saw that though the corridor went on for a great length, Annie was nowhere to be seen. The stark white hall was like an illusion, a grand expanse of white light speeding into nowhere, tile floor extended until Jean's vision failed him. On and on into nothing, a road going nowhere. Jean stared, feeling shaken and sick. This was like a horror game. The corridor didn't seem to end anywhere.

"Um," Jean said distantly, "this is creepy."

"Ah." Reiner rubbed the back of his neck. "She's probably around here somewhere. Anyway, I'll take you to see Armin. He'll probably enjoy your company more than mine. He's angry about a lot of stuff right now."

"I'd imagine," Jean said, eying Reiner suspiciously. "Is there any particular reason he's being held here against his will?"

"Um…" Reiner winced as they both started forward, and Jean felt the need to freak out about Annie's disappearance, but decided that it'd do him no good. If Reiner really did take him to Armin, that'd be really good for them. They needed to know where he was first and foremost. Annie was strong. It could wait. "Okay, well that's a little complicated, see…"

"Look, I don't want any trouble," Jean said, throwing his hands up. "I just want to take Armin and Historia home, okay?"

"Historia?" Reiner asked, looking bewildered. "Historia's not…"

Jean stared at him. And then he shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets as the seemingly endless corridor turned sharply right into a stairwell. He started down the steps, resisting the urge to smile.

"Maybe I was misinformed," he said, listening to the soles of his boots against the tile floor. They squeaked pitifully. "I thought for sure Ymir would've brought her here."

"Ymir?" Reiner hurriedly jumped up to Jean's side, keeping in careful time with him as he stared, gaping. "Ymir has her?"

"Ymir kidnapped her," Jean corrected. "Yesterday morning. I remember because I got woken up, and when I went outside the air smelled distinctly like charred skin."

"Shit," Reiner breathed, holding his forehead and looking alarmed. "What the fuck was she doing?"

"Great question, man," Jean said. "I was hoping you'd know."

"Dude, I don't know everything, okay?" He sighed, looking a little frustrated. "But if I was kept out of the loop, there was probably a reason."

"Yeah, okay." Jean didn't want to hear any of that bullshit. "So okay, I gotta know. What's all this Ilse business?"

"What?" Reiner asked flatly. They were heading down another hall now, this one identical to the last, only no they were going the opposite direction and there were more doors lining the hallway.

"Ilse," Jean said. "You know, that girl who fucked up everything? That Ilse."

"What about her?" Reiner asked cautiously.

"What the fuck is her damage?" Jean watched the hallway, feeling lightheaded and nervous. Where had Annie gone? Why was Reiner so nonchalant about her disappearance after being so happy to see her again? Why did this feel like a horror movie in progress? _Shit, am I the next victim?_

"She's…" Reiner winced. "Um, it's a special case with Ilse. She really does mean well."

"I don't even care," Jean said. "Just tell me who she is. What's her connection with this place?"

"It's not really my place to say," Reiner said slowly.

"I didn't come all the way here for a fuckin' joint and a good laugh, Reiner," he snapped. "Like, for real? This has gone on long enough! No more cryptic bullshit. I want answers."

"It's too complicated," Reiner blurted. "Seriously! I don't even understand all of it!"

"I've got time!"

Reiner looked skeptical. Jean was growing more and more frightened, turning his head around and searching the hall behind him for some sign of movement in his peripheral vision. He felt nauseated, sickened by the thick atmosphere and the empty ambience, choking on stale air and hopelessly trying to sort out what was happening around him.

He missed Annie. She made him feel at least somewhat at ease.

"Look," Reiner said, stopping at a door. His head was bowed, and he looked almost… apologetic. "I'll let you ask for yourself. Okay?"

Ask?

Jean stared at the door.

He suddenly felt the weight of the world pressing upon his shoulders and sinking into his chest.

His heart was thundering wildly in his chest, pounding so viciously that he expected his ribs to splinter apart at any given moment.

What was this? A trick?

"Where's Annie?" he whispered, feeling a prickling, creeping feeling as the air around him grew thicker and thicker and thicker, and a fog crawled across his mind. He felt as though there was someone standing right behind him, he felt as though he could feel someone's hot breath on his neck, but there was no one, only him and Reiner. Where was Bertholdt? Where was Annie? What was happening?

"She's with Historia and Ymir," Reiner sighed. Jean wanted to point out that he hadn't even know Historia had been here until a few minutes ago, but he didn't. "And, um, Bertl, apparently. I'm gonna go get them. You… you can go in. I'll be back."

"What?" Jean croaked, his arm flying out to catch Reiner's, but he missed, and he stumbled a little as Reiner turned away and headed down the hall, waving back at him. "Wait!"

"I'll be right back!" Reiner called. "Don't worry, it'll be fine!"

Jean stood numbly in the middle of the empty white corridor, feeling the eerie sensation of someone pressing up close to him, like a warm ghost in a pure white room. His breath had caught in his throat, and his knees were wobbling, and he needed a cigarette really, really bad. He needed the taste of it, the bloom of smoke as it crawled down his throat, the tingling chill of calm as it washed over him slowly. He needed that gust of energy, that smooth rush of apathy.

He needed to get a hold of himself.

_I'm not powerfu_l, he thought, staring at the door with widening eyes. His palms were prickling with sweat. I'm not smart, or strong, or brave. _But… I'm human, right? That's gotta mean something. Especially in this dumb fucking world of monsters and villains_.

Jean took a deep breath, his fingers brushing against the doorknob. His fingers were twitching. His mouth was dry.

He pushed open the door, and pushed through it without hesitation, his head held high and his breathing a little ragged.

His eyes landed first upon the bed. He saw nothing but a tuft of yellow hair peeking out of some white covers, and a great gaggle of machines all around him, wires and tubes snaking beneath the ivory blankets. Then he saw, at the foot of the bed, a brunette hunched over, barefooted and cross-legged. Slowly, the brunette turned to face Jean.

"Close the door, will you, Jean?" Marco asked very softly. "I'd rather keep this between us."


	35. freedom will flood all things with light

**libertas perfundet omnia luce**

**Ashland, Virginia**

_a.d. Non. Nov., 2766 A.U.C._

It was always so strange. The unbridled hatred that rolled from the very shells of those around him, the withering thoughts of flight and fight and ignite, to blow away the horror and the pain somehow, as though he had not already tried that, over and over and over and over and over and over and over again. In truth, he was sick of trying. In truth, he was sick. Plainly. Sick, and dull, and wanting more than anyone could ever give.

Ymir had been the first.

It had been a good few centuries, he believed, and he'd been a bit on the sicker side in those days. Depression had whittled him away. He'd killed a lot of people in various wars, and it was stuck with him. He recalled the revolution. That had been something else entirely. He'd never understood guerilla warfare, but it had felt very dirty at the time, to not face his enemies, to hide in trees and strike them down one by one as they marched in their stoic, stuffy straight lines, unable to fight against a rain of bullets.

Marco had felt every struggling thought pass through him as the bullets hit home. Every single one.

It had been so hard, at first, to deal with the guilt. Marco knew he'd never been the nicest person. When he'd been young, he'd been isolated by his father from other children, forced to live like an outcast without realizing what he truly was. So he'd become a little detached from what was right and what was wrong. He saw only the cruelty of those around him, and he reacted appropriately. Was that so wrong? It had taken him years to realize he was hardly justified in anything he did.

Ilse had been the only one who had understood how terrible it was to live with something so uncontrollable, so volatile and strange, but she was long dead, and Marco had to eat the thoughts of the dying and the suffering, breaking his fast on tears and screams. The fault was his. It was always his. He shouldered that responsibility.

See, the wonder of being around to help form a country was that you were suddenly outliving its founders, and counseling their successors, and suddenly you were the best kept secret and the world's greatest leader. It was a lot to take in. Marco wasn't really a leader, in truth, he just couldn't die, so that's why military officials would send him into the brunt of battles with a suicide squad. Because he'd win. No matter what. Because they couldn't kill him. There were a lot of legends about him nowadays.

Anyways, yeah, he'd killed some really good people, and he'd ruined a lot of lives, but at least he was kinda cute, right? Right? Eh?

Just kidding, Marco wasn't really all that fond of himself.

So, then there was Ymir. Ilse. Ymir. Ilse. See, loneliness made people do some not so nice things. Marco had been so lonely… and the research had already been there… what was a guy to do, anyway?

Digging up Ilse Langner's bones had been hard. But he'd done it. He'd done it gladly, too enrapt in his own whims to stop him from defiling the makeshift grave he'd given his real sister two centuries before.

"Is this for me?" he recalled asking her once when she'd stuck a painting in his face. She'd been eight or nine, a horrible child, really, but such a delight in every way. Marco had been utterly smitten, because it was so nice to have someone for once. Just to talk to. To love. To understand. It was such a struggle, but Ilse… Ymir… had made it easier.

"Of course," Ilse had huffed. That had been after Marco had chased her "mother" away. She went by Ilse, but her name was still Ymir to her. "Who else would it be for? It's not like I've got anyone to talk to. Thank you very much."

"Oh," Marco had sighed. "Ilse…"

"I didn't hafta paint you nothin'!" Ilse exclaimed, prodding his cheek. "So you better appreciate it, Mr. Marco!"

"Ha ha!" He dropped the painting beside him and scooped her into his arms, listening to her shriek in alarm as he nuzzled her cheek. "I _adore_ it, love, I simply _adore_ it!"

She scoffed, and she smacked him over the head, far bolder and quicker and more fiery than his Ilse had ever been. She wriggled from his grasp, her bobbed hair curling across her cheeks, and Marco saw himself in her face, in her dark eyes and sandy freckles, in her coy smile and hunched shoulders. She stuck her finger out, pointing plainly at his nose, and she laughed at him.

"You better!" she cried, whirling away, her skirts swirling around her calves as she flung her head back and cackled. "You should adore everythin' about me!"

"You know I do," Marco cooed. "Darling girl."

She glanced at him, looking at him for once with a dark sort of resignation.

"Oh?" she said coolly. "Oh? Truly? Even my name?"

Marco had been shocked into silence. She stared at him levelly, her dark eyes and dark skin and dark hair causing her to blend with the darkened room. She'd been wearing a black dress as well. White pearls hung from her neck like beads of starlight in the inky darkness of her very being.

"Ilse," he said calmly, "what are you talking about?"

And then she snapped. She'd flinched and blinked and stomped her foot, just like the child she was.

"No!" she howled. "No, no, no! That isn't my name, and you know it, you _know_ it!"

"I…" Marco had been at a loss. Her name? Not Ilse? Well, what could it be, then? Yes, he'd been an ignorant fool, but his selfishness had gotten the better of him. He'd just wanted his sister back, and in a way he'd gotten his wish, but Ymir had been so much more than just a replacement for the dead girl hanging perpetually beside him decade after decade after decade, the creaky rope still haunting his dreams and his awakenings. "I'm not sure what that means, I—"

"Idiot!" Ilse had shrieked, snatching the painting from Marco's fingers and tearing it in half. Marco watched, deeply saddened as the two halves fluttered to the floor. "Look at me. I am not your dead sister. I am me. I am the only me. And I deserve my own name. My own life. Why can't I be me, and still love you? Why can't you love me as me, and not some girl who died way back when, 'fore there was even a country, just a bunch load of colonies, and— and I… _chingado, pero yo soy yo_!"

He felt as though she'd blown him apart with a hand grenade. He felt as though he'd been thrown into a trench, forced to inhale the reeking, creeping, bleeding gases that attacked his nervous system immediately, pulling him apart bit by bit, and he stared at her with wide eyes, feeling those words like noxious chemicals eating away at the fibers of his skin and muscles and veins and bones.

"Oh," he'd said simply.

She'd stared at him. Her mind was an open book to him. How had he not seen this earlier?

He'd been ignoring it. That's how.

"I adore you," she whispered, tears glistening in her large brown eyes. "But you're a terrible person."

And with that, she left him, her dark dress trailing in her wake and her starlit pearls clinking like explosives bursting upon the earth with every clipped step of her polished heels against the tile floor. Marco would never forget the emptiness there, the stark reminder that he was alone in this world no matter the price he paid, no matter the crimes he committed against nature to make a girl like her exist in the here and the now.

She never appreciated what lengths he went through to keep her.

The process of making a perfect human being was difficult. Eugenics was a really complex subject of interest, but simply put it had taken many, many, many tries to get it right. Ymir had been a miracle birth. And, truthfully, a lucky shot in the dark. Recreating the circumstances surrounding her existence had taken decades. Levi had been a marginally more successful subject, but unfortunately for Marco the child had been left in his mother's care after birth.

"Hello, Kenny," Marco had said. It was difficult to recall now what decade this had been. Had disco still been around? Ah, shit, he couldn't remember, those crazes were too much of a blur to him. "So you knocked a girl up, huh?"

"Excuse me?"

See, Marco wasn't so worried about Kenny Ackerman's wrath, because Marco had been killed by Kenny Ackerman like, five times by that point already, so it was a friendly relationship.

"Sorry, I know you hate it when I read your mind," Marco had said sheepishly. "But I couldn't help it, your thoughts are just _screaming_—"

A shattering sort of pain, blankness, bliss, bloating blackness, blotting blinking blossoming light, and suddenly Marco was wiping the blood from his eyes as his brain reassembled itself from the shotgun blast. Everyone in the bar was screaming, and Kenny was sitting beside Marco looking bored as he sipped at his whiskey, his gun settled before him, laid out like it was a harmless article of clothing.

Six times. Six fucking times.

"Well that was rude," Marco informed the man, flicking blood into his glass and grimacing. Kenny had looked a little disgusted as he slid his glass away, glowering at Marco with his sunken eyes and his long face. What an asshole. "Look, you know me, Ken. You know how powerful I am."

"Only vaguely," Kenny had huffed. "Like, I know you're a fuckin' monster, for sure."

"Fair enough," Marco had sighed. "But here's the thing. I need a baby."

"Excuse me?"

"Not like, my baby," he continued, wiping his blood on his shirt. "That's kinda gross, heh. I mean, like, I need a baby to test some stuff on."

Marco remembered the silence that trailed after that. The bar had been emptied. Even the bartender had run off, fleeing at the sight of Marco's reanimated corpse.

"You want my bastard kid," Kenny clarified, turning fully to face him. "You're fuckin' joking. Why would you want whore spawn, anyway?"

"Oh, don't call it that," Marco groaned. "That's terrible. I just… I need a child for this to work. I know she's not very far along, but if I'm going to do this, I need to do it quickly. I'll compensate you both, of course, for your trouble."

"I'm in," Kenny said. He downed his drink, blood and all. "But you're responsible for the brat."

"Of course," Marco said coolly, watched Kenny shrug on his leather jacket and brush behind him. The bar was emptied. There were sirens in the distance.

Needless to say, someone backed out of the deal, and Levi got an even shittier childhood than he would've had with Marco. Which, Marco was still pretty pissed about.

"Hey," Marco had said about nine years later to the very same fucking man. "Fuck-o. Your son's a prostitute."

Kenny Ackerman had blown smoke into Levi's face. "Yo," said the man, older now but still a sleazy bounty hunter. "Cool it, kid. He was your responsibility."

"You said you changed your mind!" Marco had been furious because he'd been genuinely horrified to find a child in this kind of position. Especially when he could have helped in some way. "I wasn't going to steal your child if you wanted him! But you just left him to rot, and now he's scarred for life!"

"Well boo fuckin' hoo," Kenny sneered. "You want him? Take him."

Marco hadn't wanted to bring up the fact that Levi was disappointingly average. "That's not the point," Marco said. "I'll take him. Fine. Gladly. But the point is you left a child in the care of someone who did not give a fuck about his wellbeing. Why would you do that?"

"Well," Kenny said, waving his cigarette, "maybe it's because I don't give a fuck about his wellbeing?"

"You'll regret that," Marco warned, smiling at the man knowingly. Thoughts flew like fists in through the man's calculated mind, and before he could move for his gun, Marco erased himself from the man's perception and watched him curse and sneer and fling his cigarette into the dirt. What a despicable human being.

Marco was gifted, at the very least, with his ability to connect with children. When he wasn't giving them terrible hallucinations, of course. Luckily he hadn't the need for that since Salem, and he honestly found it to be an awful practice. He'd wised up some in his centuries alone. What he'd done to those little girls, that had been a folly and he understood it well. No matter how much they had deserved it.

"Hi," Marco said one day to the boy who'd been sitting rather vacantly on a stoop in Manhattan. It hadn't been hard to locate him. He'd found him before he'd even approached Kenny. The boy looked up with hollow eyes, so deep and blue and furious that Marco had been very alarmed. It had been a mistake, leaving this boy unattended. His thoughts were swarms of bees snarling around Marco's brain and puncturing his thoughts a thousand thousand times, causing his mind to grow swollen and foggy.

"The hell d'you want?" Levi asked, his pallid face stark in the midday sun. He should be in school, but of course, he didn't go to school.

"My name's Lang," he said carefully, keeping his distance. He had the appearance of a boy of about twelve. He'd washed away his freckles with a thought, burned his eyes black, and shaved his head with a swoop of his fingers. "I just wanted to see if you were okay."

"Fuck off."

Marco had been astonished. This boy was nine, wasn't he? Nine year olds shouldn't talk like that. But then, nine years olds didn't often go through the things Levi did. It was a shame. He had a nice mind beneath the furious buzzing and the crippling distrust and disgust.

"Wow," Marco had said, leaning back. "Aren't you friendly. Look, do you know where I could get a smoke around here?"

That had done it. Levi had glanced at him, a tiny bit hopeful, and he pointed to the stoop next door. "Good luck," the boy said. "That guy's a real hardass."

The inevitability of Marco convincing the man next door to give him a pack of cigarettes came too quickly. All Marco did was ask. Rather… persuasively. And the pack was his. Marco glanced at it, and then he tossed it into the little boy's lap.

"You can keep those," Marco said, staring down at Levi with a stern sort of gaze. "But only if you do me a solid and start going to school."

Look, it hadn't been the greatest plan, but at the time everyone smoked, and anyway, it had worked. Levi had scoffed at him, taken the cigarettes, and marched inside his apartment building.

But within a week he was attending the local middle school.

And within a month, he'd accidentally broken a boy's legs at recess.

By tripping and stepping on them.

Well. That was something.

Marco had told Levi's teacher to go take a nap in the bathroom while he pretended to be her. He found the boy hunched over on the steps in the front of the school, his knees pulled up to his chest, and his tiny shoulders trembling. The boy was abnormally tiny, and his thoughts were like firecrackers going off in a grand succession, never halting, never faltering, and it was legitimately off-putting.

He had been terrified.

"Hello, Levi," Marco said, his voice carefully mimicking that of the woman he was impersonating. "I heard what happened."

He sniffled rather pitifully, wiping his snot on his sleeve, and his small shoulders rose and fell in the most meager of shrugs. Marco sat down beside him, and the boy scooted away rather quickly, as though being within a foot of Marco put him at risk of being burned alive. Marco understood. He cared.

"It's not your fault," Marco told him gently. "It was an accident."

"I broke his legs," Levi whispered. "I did that."

"You didn't mean it," Marco offered.

He was crying, Marco saw, his pale lips trembling and streams of pale tears streaking his tiny face. He turned away from Marco, his body tense and his breaths uneven as he spat, "Leave me alone."

"I understand," Marco said gently. Levi had just shook his head, shook his head, his thoughts reeling. _I'm a monster_, the child had thought, _I'm a freak. I'm nothing, I'm disgusting, I'm stupid, I'm wrong, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_—

_I'm strong_, Marco whispered into Levi's mind. The boy jumped, a sharp breath flying through his lips. Perhaps he'd never heard that before. That he was strong. That he could be anything other than the terrible things he'd been told he was since birth.

Marco had made a mistake in this boy. He should have given him the attention he'd given Ymir since the day he was born.

"Sometimes," Marco had told Levi, smoothing out what the boy perceived was a long skirt, "people make mistakes. And sometimes, people don't understand it when another person is different. You're different, Levi. You're special."

"I'm not," he croaked, unable to look his teacher in the eye. "I'm… I'm just…"

_I'm special_, Marco fed into his mind. _I'm strong_.

_No_, Levi had thought back, stunned and confused and terrified beyond belief. _I'm disgusting. I'm wrong_.

"You are so important, Levi," Marco said, placing a hand on the boy's head. "Don't let anyone let you believe you're not. What happened today was nothing but an accident. It doesn't define you. Take it as a lesson. You're very powerful, and you might make this mistake again, but it's not your fault. You just need to learn to control and accept it."

"I…?" Levi stared up at him, his shock so evident that it made his face stark and childish. He looked younger than he truly was.

_But I'm nothing_, Levi had thought. _I'm nothing, I'm nothing, I'm nothing_.

_I'm important_, Marco forced him to hear inside his darkened mind. _I'm special. I'm strong. And I'm better than this. I'm better than the things they tell me I am. I am powerful. I am right. And I am not going to let anyone tell me I am anything less than what I am, not today, not tomorrow. Not ever again_.

He looked a little dizzy as he hiccuped, and leaned into Marco's touch, his eyes dazed and his mind a blur of negative and positive thoughts.

"I'm…" Levi struggled to his feet, swaying a bit as he wiped away his tears. "I'm okay, I think…"

_I'm okay_, he thought. And this time, Marco didn't need to push him. He genuinely had that thought.

At the very least Marco could save him from the confusion he'd gone through at this age.

Levi accepted who he was in a stride. Unfortunately, his father was a fucking douchebag.

For real.

See, Marco was not strictly _comfortable_ with stealing children from their parents. He'd do it, of course, if it was necessary, but when the kid was nine years old and distrustful by nature, it was a bit too difficult. Levi would never actually trust him, because what Levi wanted was independence. Not a new family. So when Kenny Ackerman got to the kid, Marco found that he was a little powerless to stop him.

Also, he was a bit curious.

What could Kenny teach the boy that Marco couldn't?

Marco saw the result first hand.

Brutality. Sadism. Ruthlessness. Fearlessness. Precision.

Kenny Ackerman had taken Marco's experiment, and turned him into a human weapon.

That had never been what Marco had wanted.

Marco more or less left Levi alone after that, though. He had to give the boy a few more pushes here and there, particularly in his late teen years when he'd succumbed to a lot of demons. His depression worsened considerably. Marco kept a keen watch on him, sometimes going so far as to sit with him during his worst lows and consistently feed him good thoughts so he didn't bite a bullet.

This happened to be around the time Mikasa Ackerman was conceived.

"You want me to experiment on your brother's baby," Marco clarified when Kenny Ackerman came to him in a slump. His son hated him. His life was a mess. At least he was good at killing people. "Bro. Bro…"

"Look, my brother is a cunt," Kenny said. Marco stared at him blankly, resisting the urge to chastise him. Why did he deal with this man, again? "But he's my cunt. So like, you're gonna make that kid strong. Like mine is. Got it?"

"Firstly," Marco said, smiling dimly, "I cannot believe you just referred to your younger brother as your vagina, that is by far the best thing to ever come out of your mouth— ah ah!" Marco pressed his palm to the barrel of the gun that Kenny stuck in his face, and he tore the thing from the man's grasp. "I'm talking, asshole. Jesus, it has been like twenty years since we started dealing together, you think you could stop killing me?"

Marco received a goddamn fucking machete to the brain as a reply.

"Ow." He scrubbed the blood from his face, and he scowled at Kenny as Go cleaned his machete off with a rag that had been the bartender's a few minutes ago, but hey, it was fucking Kenny, so who the fuck knew. The bar was empty again. How did this man never get caught? "Seriously, stop doing that! It still hurts!"

"That's why I do it," Kenny had said. "Anyway, look, the slut he married—"

"The very nice lady, I imagine," Marco corrected gently.

"The fucking girl he ended up getting fucking preggo has her doctorate in biology, or somethin' like that," Kenny said. "You could probably convince her to do anything for the science shit, yeah?"

"I don't understand how you benefit from this."

"I fucked up with Levi," Kenny said, staring into Marco's eyes. "Don't wanna make that mistake again."

Marco didn't really know what to say or do at that point, but that was basically how Mikasa had come into the picture.

"Kenny wants what?" Mikasa's father was a very tall man, and much friendlier in demeanor than his assassin of a brother. His wife was very pretty, and now that Marco recalled it, she'd looked a whole lot like Mikasa.

"Your baby," Marco said sheepishly. "Yeah. I know. It's weird."

"Not really," Mikasa's mother had said, leaning her cheek against her fist. She'd been sitting at her kitchen table, looking rather bored. "Kenny's always been a bit unhinged."

"We don't talk much anymore," the man admitted, glancing at his wife. "But I did tell him about the baby."

"Have you ever met Kenny's son?" Marco asked them curiously. They glanced at each other, bewildered.

"Kenny has a son?" Mrs. Ackerman blurted, leaning back in her chair. "Holy shit."

"He— he never said anything about that, not… not ever…" Mikasa's father looked like he needed to sit down.

"Yeah, his name is Levi," Marco said, shrugging. "He's about nineteen. Wouldn't recommend meeting him, though, he's in a really bad place right now."

"With Kenny as a father," Mrs. Ackerman stated dryly, "I can't imagine why."

"Well, the point is," he said, waving it off, "that Levi is kinda a superhuman."

"Excuse me?" Mr. Ackerman said flatly. "My nephew. Kenny's son. A superhuman?"

"Yes," Marco said. "I made him that way. And I can make your child the same way." He turned to address Mrs. Ackerman, smiling at her gently. "There's no risk. I'll use the same serum I used to create Levi, and there were no health defects that I could note. However, I was unable to actually observe Levi as he grew up, because Kenny decided to back out of our deal before Levi was born. Most unfortunate for the poor boy, who grew up in a terribly abusive home, and now he's an absolute wreck." Marco rubbed his beck sheepishly. "I don't want that to happen to your child. I'd like to monitor their growth so I can improve upon the serum."

"What the fuck?" Mrs. Ackerman asked blankly. She squinted at him. Marco smiled at her wanly. "Holy shit, you're serious?"

"Look," Mr. Ackerman quickly, stepping between Marco and his wife. He was clearly a lot more well adjusted than his brother, thank god, but Marco was just honestly surprised by how calm he was. "We don't want any trouble but what you're offering is a little insane."

"You have no idea," Marco had sighed loftily. "Okay, let me explain. My name is Mark Langner. I go by Marco. I'm a mind reader. Hello."

They'd simply stared at him.

Why was this always so hard to believe?

_I'm a legitimate mind reader_, he pushed into their thoughts. They both jerked forward, looking utterly bewildered. _And I also happen to be immortal. Kenny knows that. He's killed me eighteen times in the past twenty years. It's really annoying_.

"What…?" Mr. Ackerman gasped, holding his head.

"I just want someone like me," Marco admitted. "Someone who can't die. Wouldn't it be nice if your son or daughter was the same way?"

Needless to say, after some meticulous convincing, they'd agreed.

It wasn't hard to manipulate people when you had a power like Marco's.

He tried really hard to leave it up to free will, but hey, come on. How could he pass up this chance?

By that point in time, Grisha Jaeger had begun working for Marco in attempt to create a serum that would actually create an immortal being. Ymir had been the result of creating a human with the power of a god. Levi and Mikasa had been the result of superhuman strength, making them very hard to kill, but not immortal by any means. Now Marco was on the hunt for a way to keep those he'd created in this world with him. He wanted nothing more than to have the comfort of knowing he would not be alone for eternity. That was all.

He got volunteers from people who had connections with him dating back to his war days. He'd fought with a Leonhardt in the first Great War. He'd been a total dick, but man if he didn't put up a fight. Marco had kept in touch with him after the war because he was the only man in his squadron who survived the suicide missions they were sent on consistently. The Hoovers and Brauns had been his buddies from the original facility, helped him with Ymir's creation and all that. They'd also run a nice speakeasy. The family was still close in the twenty first century, and both happened to have some sick kids they were willing to do anything for. Marco took them gladly. Reiss was an old name. Marco was certain that he'd known a Reiss during the Revolution, a turncloak or something like that, who'd been close to royalty. He'd kept in very loose touch with that family, but somehow he was pulling the strings with Rod Reiss's political career.

Which gave Marco a steady stream of willing participants.

By that point it was a little complicated. He wanted them to like him, but he understood that they were all pretty miserable with their situations, and no matter how hard he tried to cheer them up, they all thought they were going to die. It was infuriating.

In the end, even with all his experimentation, even with all his good intentions, they still felt as though they were trapped. Which wasn't all their fault, Marco did make them sign a contract, which was pretty excessive, but hey, it was Marco, he did things in excess. The problem was that he didn't end their suffering. He worsened it.

He heard Levi thinking about his escape plan before it really registered to him that he could truly do it. So Marco did what he thought was necessary.

He allowed it to happen.

He suppressed the memories of the children who managed to escape in particular because he felt that they would be happier if they did not have to remember the misery he'd unintentionally put them through. The adults were simpler. They'd already been through so many hardships, he decided just to erase his existence from their minds. Even Rico, who'd come by recommendation of Mikasa's father, one of her college professors. Before he'd been murdered by some mooks who were after Kenny and got mixed up. Luckily enough, when Kenny came looking for the girl, he assumed her dead with the rest. Go figure.

Unfortunately Ymir had gotten out somehow as well, which had not been Marco's intention. An even greater folly was the manifestation of Historia Reiss's power, which had not happened until the night of the escape. Hers was exactly what Marco needed. She was the one surefire way to keep everyone Marco held dear around him. Forever.

With their consent, of course.

Annie, Bertholdt, and Reiner were the only ones who stayed. And Marco told them time and time again that they were free to come and go. And they did.

What else was left to explain, then?

Ah.

Yes.

Marco Bodt.

Marco had never intended to get mixed up in Mikasa's life. And Jean's life had meant very little at the time. Jean was the same sort of pawn as Levi's teacher or, by extension, Kenny Ackerman. Only he'd been nice. And Marco had been lonely.

"So when do you go back to school?" Jean had asked, a mouthful of ice cream muffling his words. Marco had done what he always did, and read his mind to find out when he went back to school. He said that date.

"Oh, cool!" Jean swallowed thickly, and grinned at him. "Hey, crap, do we go to the same school? That'd be really cool!"

Marco had a weakness when it came to being loved.

Boy, did he love it.

"Maybe we do," Marco had said, smiling back shyly.

That had been the beginning.

Marco wasn't sure where his humanity was anymore. If Marco Bodt had been real, or if Ilse Langner had been real, or if this face or this name or this voice was real.

Marco didn't know who he was or what he was or why he was.

He just was.

And he just couldn't take the empty years and empty spaces and empty chest and empty mind and empty, empty, empty being any longer.

His life was empty, and so he'd created a new one.

All he wanted was to be happy.

All he wanted was for those he was responsible for to be happy.

All he wanted was a little bit of solace.

But all he had was an empty chest and empty words.

_Do you see now, Jean?_

_Do you see what a monster I am?_

_Do you see why I tricked you? Why I made you into something you weren't? Why I lied again and again, and made you hate yourself and me and the entire world?_

_Do you see why I wanted you so badly to just be the normal boy who cared about me regardless of who I was or where I came from?_

_Do you see?_

When Jean opened his eyes, he looked lost. Marco decided to pull back, careful of the space between them. Jean looked a little shocked. Likely because Marco had sprung the kiss on him a bit suddenly, and also the details surrounding the kiss, the information relayed and the feelings shared, were probably a lot to take in.

Jean stood, his mouth parted and his brow knitted and his body taut. Marco felt a little sheepish as he settled back down on Armin's bed, pulling his long legs up and letting one bare foot hang idly off the side. He was tired and sad and lonely, and now Jean understood all that.

Regardless, it was unlikely they'd be alone for much longer. Marco had mentally nudged Annie toward Historia, hiding her from Jean and Reiner's view if only just to have this chance to explain to Jean.

Maybe he'd understand.

Maybe it was useless.

What did it matter, anyway?

"Um…" Jean raised a shaky hand to his lips, still looking dazed. "What the fuck…?"

"Sorry," Marco sighed, closing his eyes. "I know I should've asked first, but it's a really good way to relay info… and also, I kinda just wanted to try it once on you. So there."

"Not the fucking kiss, man," Jean hissed, his eyes narrowing. "The… this entire thing. This institute. Facility. You really are responsible for all of it!"

"Yes…?" Marco cracked an eye open. "I'm not hiding that anymore, Jean. I just showed you everything. I mean, I could go into more detail, of course, but that'd take, like, years of kissing, which I imagine—"

"I got it, I got it," Jean groaned, throwing up his hands and waving them furiously. "I just… Fuck, man, I thought you were dead!"

"Yeah, man," Marco said, smiling weakly. "I know. That's what I wanted."

"Okay, fine, but do you have any idea how fucking traumatizing that was?" Jean snapped. "I saw your fucking head cracked open and your brain shattered into a bunch of itty bitty goddamn pieces. I wasn't allowed to go your friggin' funeral which, yeah, by the way, I fuckin' get it now, asshole, but it was super stressful and I was really, really, really depressed for weeks and weeks, but you were alive the whole time, and you're a mind reader, so you know all of this already, and I'm just like— fuck, man! You fucked me over!"

Marco sat and listened, nodding slowly. Yes, those were all valid points. Jean's mind told it to him true, that he felt like he'd been cheated out of something because Marco was alive and kinda an awful person, which, yes, he got it.

"I kinda did, didn't I?" Marco winced. "Sorry, dude."

"Sorry my ass."

"So do you hate me?" he asked curiously. After all, it'd be completely understandable if he did. Marco had truly been a terrible friend. He'd had his reasons, of course, wanting Jean to be his own person, to not have to live with the fear of dying and leaving Marco alone for eternity, to have to defend Marco's poor choices, to have to be the fall guy because Marco fucked up. Again. Marco just wanted to sever the ties before he got found out for the monster he was.

"That's a loaded question," Jean said, running his fingers through his hair. He glanced around the room, his eyes flashing, and Marco tasted his thoughts like honeycomb oozing inside his mouth. It was too sweet and the consistency trickled through Marco's mind in slow dribbles, snagging on his thoughts and cementing wax to the roof of his mouth.

"It's actually kinda simple," he said, tilting his head. "Do you hate me or not?"

"I'm mad at you!" Jean jerked his finger at Marco's face. "I'm fucking pissed!"

He stared at Jean's face levelly, ignoring the accusatory finger stuck between his eyes. "That doesn't answer my question," he said slowly.

"Fuck you, man."

Marco dropped his head, unable to contain his laughter. Jean was the same. After all of it, all the bullshit Marco had put him through, Jean was essentially the same frank bastard he'd always been. There was something comforting about that fact, in spite of the dull irritation in knowing that Jean had learned nothing from his experience. Perhaps that was for the best. What had Marco been trying to change, anyway? Jean was an asshole, but he'd always been a good person. Marco was just the opposite.

"Are…" Jean's voice was strained. "Are you _laughing_ at me?"

"No, no!" Marco gasped, waving his hands hurriedly. "Not _at_ you!"

_You're totally laughing at him_, Armin thought to Marco, his inky thoughts blotting out Marco's vision like a blooming Rorschach test. _Asshole_.

_That's enough from you_, Marco told him curtly. _Go back to sleep_.

_I was awake the whole time, though._

_Well keep pretending, then._

_Maybe if you let me talk to Historia_—

"I'm sorry," Marco blurted. "I know this is weird."

"Oh man," Jean whistled, holding up his hands, his eyes widening in faux shock. "Oh _man_! You're fucking sorry! Dude, yeah, that just makes it all better, just patched up everything right there. Because, you know, I'm that gullible. God, do you have any idea just how hard it is to even look at you?"

"Yes," Marco admitted. "I know from your thoughts."

"Stop reading them, then, holy fuck!" Jean's hands clapped over his head, and this time he really was shocked, and he really was horrified, and Marco felt ashamed. "Did you do that all the time? Read my thoughts and react to them?"

Marco stared at him, feeling a little lost at the question. How could he not read Jean's thoughts? They were always there, and they stuck inside Marco's head and made him dizzy. How could he not hear the fluttering wisps of self doubt and self assurance and self righteousness? How could Marco not listen in to the bustling whirl of emotions that were strung together inside Jean's strong mind? How? How? How?

His stare must have been vacant, because Jean scoffed, and he shook his head furiously.

"You're invasive," Jean accused, "and cruel. You have no idea what you do to people."

"I do," Marco objected. "Jean, I know, and that's what makes me horrible. Right? Tell me that. Tell me I'm a monster."

"I'm not going to do that."

"Why not?" Marco was itching to lose his cool and show Jean just how much of a monster he truly was. "It's not like it isn't true!"

"Shut up!" Jean snarled. "You're not a monster!"

Marco sat back. A smile was buried deep within him, a sense of contentment, a wild fire of fear doused in a single splash of beating words. No. Jean did not hate him. Jean would never hate him. That was the truth here.

Marco was glad.

"Tell me," Marco said distantly, his voice flat and dull, "how am I not a monster?"

"God damn…" Jean ran his fingers through his hair. It was bias, likely, that kept Jean from hating him. A connection that could not be severed. Armin would understand.

_Stop it, Marco_, Armin chastised. _You're just confusing him_.

"Do you think I'm a monster, Armin?" Marco asked quietly. Jean jumped. Perhaps he forgot that Armin was there. He'd been so inconspicuous, after all. The boy sat up, his rings of bruised blue eyes settling upon Marco's face. He was a corpse, or something like one, a hollow eyed, hollow cheeked, waxy skinned shell of a boy with no future and no past and nothing but his vicious thoughts and his infinite rage to sustain him.

"I think you've made yourself into a monster," Armin said in his hoarse little voice. He'd had another seizure after Marco had spoken with Historia, so he was a little worse for wear, and he had to use the nasal cannula consistently again. "And you've manipulated us to mimic you. So what does that make us, Marco?"

"Oh, don't start that," Marco groaned. "Anyway, thank you for proving my point. Jean, you're wrong. I'm the monster here. I've accepted that. You should too."

"Oh god, this is so fucked up," Jean groaned. "This is so, so… I want to believe in you, but holy shit, you are just… you're so fucking problematic!"

"Problematic?" Marco repeated in earnest shock. Beside him, Armin actually burst into a fit of giggles, the first genuine laugh Marco had heard from him in a very long time. Was Marco problematic? Was that a suitable word for what he was doing and what he had done?

He confused himself sometimes. This didn't matter.

"Yes, you're problematic!" Jean gritted his teeth, and his thoughts were all muddled and unsure. A fault of Marco's. _I've done this_, Marco thought sadly to himself. _I've broken one of my dearest friends_. "You might have good intentions, but you're— you are actually, probably insane. You are the worst. You put everyone through so much bullshit, hid it under lie after lie, and then you just spout this cryptic bullshit like I'm supposed to understand a word you say!"

Marco must've been staring strangely, because Armin mentally shoved him, a great inkwell pouring into Marco's mouth and turning his teeth black. "Are you listening to him?" Armin asked coldly. "Because he's right."

"Yes, I'm listening," Marco said, resisting the urge to rub his temples. "I've been listening. And I agree, he's right."

"Fuck yeah, I'm right!" Jean cried. Then, he looked puzzled, and he slumped a little. "Why are you agreeing with me?"

"Because I understand what you're saying, and I think you're right?" Marco blinked rapidly. "I mean, yes, I have my own agenda, fine, but c'mon, Jean. I told you. I'm a monster. I know I'm wrong. I know that this entire situation is my fault. And I'm okay with all of you hating me."

The last part was a bit of a lie. It wasn't so much that he was okay with it as he was willing to accept it. It made sense. He was a reasonable guy, it wasn't totally out of his grasp to see that he'd royally fucked things up. And he did feel guilty for all the grief he'd caused.

"Can I slap him?" Jean asked Armin, jerking his thumb at Marco. "Is that something that I can do right now?"

"Please do," Armin murmured.

Marco waited, but no slap came.

He sighed inwardly, resting his chin in his palm as he observed Jean's furious face.

Typical.

"I'm trying really hard here," Marco said cautiously. "I made my peace three hundred and twenty one years ago, and I'd gladly lay down my life permanently for any of you. The trouble is, I _can't_. I'm stuck. Time's supposed to be this endlessly flowing river, right? But I'm just riding the current, and I don't know how to get out. Armin, I don't want you to die, but the truth is, I don't know if I can stop you from dying. Jean, I've been waiting for you to die since the moment I met you. This world… is endless… and it's so cruel…" He let out a shaky laugh, his eyes snapping shut as he shook his head vigorously. "Ah, what am I saying? You don't understand. I'm just a crazy asshole who fucked up your lives."

"Marco," Armin said softly. When Marco turned to face him, the boy was leaning forward, his eyes surprisingly vivid and bright, and he lowered his head slightly to meet Marco's gaze. "I do understand you. I think I understand you better than anyone in the entire world, as I expect you understand me with equal strength. But the point is, we're on differing sides of a debate, and you refuse to back down. You won't give me and Historia and Ymir the freedom we deserve. You want to smother us, because you want to keep us, like we're your property. But you don't get to decide whether I live or die or rot in here or in hospice. You don't get to make decisions for anyone but yourself. So just do yourself a favor and let us be free to do as we see fit."

Marco understood a bit about freedom.

He'd grown up stifled by a theocracy that branded him an abomination. He saw himself in the slaves that worked day and night with nothing to show for it. He'd bled and let bleed to establish the foundation of this country. He'd pushed his mind to its limits in power, struggling to steal and twist and hoard thoughts that would allow the people to grow and prosper and live on with a legacy they could be proud of. Marco had done this, he'd done it without complaint, because selflessness and selfishness had not been an occurrence until he'd gone half-mad with loss and loneliness.

Three hundred years he'd been trapped, but not once had anyone cared to put the effort into freeing him.

Why the hell should he waver now?

What was he even doing?

Was he right?

Was he wrong?

Was he simply losing his mind?

Perhaps he'd been free from the very start, but the price had been too steep, and he'd lost his wits about him somewhere in his ceaseless vigil.

Marco didn't want to stand by and watch people die anymore.

He just wanted some solace.

He was sick to death of death, see, and he would rather bask in the glory of life for once.

That was why Historia was so important.

Vita, vitae, life, of life. Wasn't it grand?

He pushed himself to his feet.

"You really are amazing, Armin," Marco whispered, his voice catching inside his throat. His mind was abuzz, and he tried and tried and tried, but he was so tired of trying, and he couldn't find himself anymore amongst the words and the tastes and the bitter feelings winding up, up, up, winding him up like a toy soldier off to war again and again and again.

How many battles did he have to fight before he got what he wanted?

How many lives did he have to waste?

How many people had to die until he finally expired?

When did it end?

The world was his to enslave and free, and yet here he was, asking merely for the cooperation of one child who had no other options.

He'd been questioning his existence for three centuries, and it still was not enough to give him the answers he sought.

Science? Miracles? Where did it end, where did it begin?

What was his life? What was his purpose? Why had he been born to steal thoughts and feelings, why had his sister been able to pour all of her life and ability to give life into him?

Mysteries plagued him, and he was ill with the unknown. He had no name or face any longer, just scraps of what could be, what should be, what had been, what will be.

He loathed himself more and more and more and more, and he loathed that he had no control to speak of.

"I've been so terrible to all of you," he said, his voice pitched to break, leading on hysterical, and he felt that his emotions would not keep if he continued this nonsensical attempt to appeal to them. "I wanted so badly to… to just have something… that could last forever. I just can't stand it, I can't stand watching every single person I ever meet die, it just… it happens so quickly… one minute we've just met, and the next I'm meeting your grandkids to express my condolences. I don't want that anymore, I don't want that pain, I just want to be able to have something concrete and real and alive for the duration of my existence."

"You can't have anything forever," Armin said softly. "And you certainly can't have me."

Marco was struggling to find different ways to convince this boy, but it seemed a waste. He was consuming the fierce determination of this silly child, this boy who could hardly breathe on his own he was so lost to the world, and yet he seemed to will himself away from a fate chosen by Marco's hand.

"What is so horrible about the prospect of living?" Marco asked in strangled disbelief.

"Living forever with you?" Armin smiled dimly. "Sounds like an endless nightmare."

"Welcome to my world," Marco said coolly.

He understood, and that was the worst part, because he knew and he didn't want to know, and it hurt so badly to understand how terrible he was. He was breaking apart at the very seams and feeling his mind leak from his ears, and if anyone understood, it was Armin. Because had Marco not inflicted this same kind of strange surreal mental torture upon him? Had Marco not been responsible?

Or had that just been another bit of his illness that neither of them understood?

Mysteries, mysteries!

He hated them all.

There was a sudden inexplicable taste of dark chocolate that folded over his tongue and melted so fast that it barely lingered. And then it was pouring down his throat in a scorching rage, and he was choking on it, his entire mind closing up in shock to the foreign presence and the familiar touch.

_Turn around, motherfucker_.

Marco didn't understand. When had this happened?

He should have heard him coming. How had this happened?

He didn't understand.

He turned to face Eren Jaeger anyway.

The boy was like a firecracker, and the sound was bursting apart inside Marco's fragile brain.

His fist collided with Marco's face, and he felt himself stagger under the sheer force, the sheer power of it, His nose broke apart and blood streamed freely into his parted lips, the taste of warm blood boiling amongst the frothy black chocolate mind. He was drowning in the bitter tastes and the cracking of sounds, and he was having trouble catching his breath. In his head, Armin was laughing at him.

So. The tables had turned.

_Your ignorance_, Armin thought at him fiercely, _is your weakness, Marco_.

He stood with one hand to his nose, staunching the blood and staring in wonder at Eren's dark face. His green eyes were alight with his fury, and his teeth were bear for Marco to see them glisten, an animalistic instinct parting through the tethers of his mind, beckoning him to leap for the kill.

Eren held back.

Just long enough for Marco to see Rico Brzenska leaning against a wall. She tasted like cold coffee and the crisp bite of late autumn air, and she glowered at him from the round rims of her glasses, her hatred escalating with every second she spent with her eyes upon him. As though her memories of him from her facility days had somehow surfaced.

"Hi, Eren," Marco said, his words muffled by a mouthful of blood.

Unsurprisingly, he was kicked to the floor with a sold jerk of the boy's leg. Damn, the kid was strong!

"You think," Eren rasped, his voice a pitchy tune that sang with a faltering edge across the expanse of the room, "that you can just fuckin' talk to me? Like I fuckin' care what you've got to say?"

Marco coughed, spitting blood onto the linoleum floor, and he smiled vacantly at nothing. How familiar it was to be hated. The hatred was toiling up inside Eren, a rush and a buzz and a kick of power that struck Marco in the stomach and turned him onto his side.

_How did I miss this?_ he thought wildly. _How could I possibly not hear this in Jean's mind? In Annie's?_

_You're a fool, Marco,_ Armin thought to him, his voice a chilly slap inside Marco's throbbing head_. You're ignorant, and you're foolish, and you forget. I am… far more powerful than you_.

"Come here, you bastard." Eren caught Marco by his collar and dragged him half upright, shoving him at the door.

"Eren," Armin gasped, "Eren, what're you—?"

The door opened, and Marco found himself being snatched by the front of his shirt and flung through the open door. For a moment he was flying through the air, and then, with a great amount of pain, he was bent awkwardly between the sheetrock of a wall, his bones protruding outward, caught outside his skin and splintered so terribly that Marco could not make out which bone was which. He blinked profusely, stars in his eyes, blood on his lips, voices ringing in his ears.

He was hopelessly hopeless and hopelessly hopeful and the world was spinning and so was he.

"Fuck," said a cigarette smoke flutter, a black tea burst. "Did I kill him?"

"He can't exactly die." Erwin Smith's face flickered in Marco's line of vision, and the man had the audacity to smile. "Hello, there. We have a few questions."

"Or a thousand," scoffed an incredulous voice that Marco recognized to be Connie Springer's. Root beer barrels clanged against his teeth.

"So Annie was right," a peppermint sigh blew over Marco's mind. He winced, and attempted to heft himself out of the wall.

"Oh, please. Hold your surprise." Annie was easy to recognize. Her icy mind was a familiar blessing, but even so, it hurt. She loathed him. He'd raised her, and she despised him, and he could not even blame her because he'd been so awful. He could hear her thoughts in his head, swirling and lacing his mind with bitter poison, and he thought he might scream for her forgiveness, scream for someone, anyone, to understand his plight, but he could not, he could not, he was not worth of such a thing.

"Aha," Marco rasped, crawling from the jagged layers of sheetrock and collapsing onto the floor, his blood pooling around his busted legs. "Ow."

"I'll show you 'ow'!" Eren snarled, half marching toward Marco with his rage alight like a sparkler running loose, streams of fire searing into his brain.

"Eren, that's enough." Erwin halted the boy with an arm flung out, and Marco sighed. He pulled his legs out straight, hissing a bit in mild pain. He'd had far worse injuries than this, but it still hurt like a bitch. "We want to talk to him, remember?"

"You want to talk to him," Eren sneered. "I want to rip his head off!"

Marco licked his lips, tasting the smooth familiar tang of blood as it clung to the grooves of his skin. He rolled up the cuffs of his pants closing his eyes to bear the sheer throbbing pain of maneuvering the fabric over the jutting bone, and then, easily, he took the splintered section and slid if back into his skin, minding the oozing of his blood and the spasms of his muscle and the blinding white hot pain that splashed over him like fiery waves. The sound was squelching like leather gloves rubbing together, the friction sending vast sound waves, quiet but disturbing.

He felt their horror and disgust as they watched.

"Okay," Marco said, holding his blood smeared hands up in the air, noting the uneven pattern of crimson and pink across the smooth freckled flesh. "So, here we are. You caught me. Congratulations. This was so unexpected. Would you like an award?"

"Oh my god," Levi said in a short, clipped voice. Disgust toiled inside him, and it was not unlike it had been twenty years ago, only now his disgust was pointed at Marco not himself, and that was an oddly comforting thing, because at least Marco knew that one of them had benefitted from his ceaseless meddling. "I'm gonna actually fucking shove my fist down your throat and rip your spine out."

Marco sat on the floor, considering this threat.

He smiled wanly.

"I'll survive that," he admitted, "but it's never been done before, so you're actually really welcome to try!"

Levi turned to Eren, his eyes flashing with unadulterated rage. "Kill him," he spat.

"Ooh, boy, you ain't gonna be disappointed," Eren hissed, his eyes shadowed by his bloodlust.

"Oi," Hange said, waving their hand in front of Eren's face. "None of that, you dummy. Go make sure Armin is okay."

Eren faltered. Marco watched in amazement as his rage faded away so rapidly it stung his mind, and startling panic washed over the boy as he turned away and disappeared through the door to Armin's room.

_Oh_, Mikasa thought, whirling away just the same, a flutter of blue and gray swirling as she rushed to join Eren's side.

Their love for Armin outweighed their hatred for him.

Humanity made him so sad.

They were all going to die.

He didn't want that.

He didn't want them to see the horror, to feel the pain, to be lost for the remainder of their short, squandering lives.

He wanted them to be happy together, but how could they be anything but empty and miserable as he was when the truth was they'd been dying since conception?

"I'm sorry, I actually didn't catch all of you coming in," he said dryly as he stood up. His legs were vaguely achy, but he'd survive. Inevitably. "So, how did you do it?"

"You really want an explanation. From _us_." Connie looked absolutely a thousand percent done, and his thoughts were all angry bulks of Spanish swears that made no sense even in his head. "_De verdad necesitas el poder de Jes__ú__s Cristo creo que tambi__é__n el de Mar__í__a y Jos__é__, por que est__á__s loco_. _Ese_."

"I was actually kinda literally hanged for that reason," Marco said, touching his neck and taking their minds in his hands, the malleable mush that they were, and twisting them abruptly, letting his appearance shift with a great shudder like the earth had just cracked beneath them, and he smiled as he tilted his head, acknowledging his face as that of Ilse Langner as it had been the dawn he'd pulled her down from a tree. "_**Ese**_."

"_Mierda_!" Connie squeaked, skidding back in a fluid blur, suddenly hiding behind the horrified Sasha. She was clinging to him, her mind a flash of terror and confusion and perhaps even rage. "Holy fuck, holy fuck! Cut that out!"

"I understand you are all very confused," Marco said, using Ilse's sweet voice to bleed his words into their minds. Whenever he did this, he always felt safe and content, as though Ilse were somehow right beside him. He was a fool, just as Armin had said. A terrible fool. "The truth is, I never meant for any of you to find out about this."

"Well, no shit," Sasha squeaked, holding Connie's head to her shoulder to shield him from the gruesome sight of the flickering image of Ilse's walking, talking corpse. The angry red welt around her throat was burned into his memory forever. It was only right they understood how awful that was.

"Hey, _hermano_." Ymir's pretty face came hovering into his line of vision, and she smirked at him. Her hair was down, and for once they looked really, truly alike, like the siblings he wished they were. "That's a nice look on you."

"You're a peach, love," Marco said, rolling his eyes. "As always."

She threw her head back and laughed.

Oh, Marco loved Ymir so dearly.

But he felt her fury and he knew her scorn, and he understood that he'd done her wrong.

"Wow, you're a fucking train wreck," Levi said. Coming from him that truly meant something.

"Yes, I am, thank you for noticing." Marco clapped very slowly. "Such astute. Really wow."

"I don't know guys, I think they're kinda funny," Hange chirped. He smiled them brightly. He really appreciated that, even though he could feel their aggravation.

"Marco," Erwin said cautiously. "Ah, is that your real name?"

"It's his real name," Annie said, her eyes narrowed on Marco's face. "Seriously, cut the shit. You've been caught. It's over. You can't hide this from them anymore."

Marco stared at her, her chilly gaze and her iced over thoughts, and he let himself fold. Their vision was released, and they saw him for what he truly was.

A boy. Just a boy. With dark dead eyes, and a tight-lipped smile.

He wished he could've been the hero they had all wanted him to be.

The truth was, he didn't believe in heroes. He'd seen too much, done too much, been praised and shamed far too much to believe that there could be heroes in this world.

He appreciated the effort, though.

"My name was Mark Langner," he said cautiously. "I was born in 1677. I went by Marco for the duration of my life, as an affectionate nickname given to me by my elder sister, Elizabeth." He looked at them all pointedly. "Ilse. As you can guess, we weren't normal children. I had telepathy. She could heal people. I've… made a lot of mistakes."

"Yeah," Armin said from the doorway, leaning against both Mikasa and Eren for support. "Like single handedly starting the Salem Witch Trials."

"Wait, for real?" Connie piped up.

"That's kinda sick," Sasha said.

"Wait, sick as in gross, or sick as in cool?" Connie asked her.

"Uh… both?" She cocked her head. "Yeah, both."

"Yeah," Connie agreed.

"You two are odd," Ymir declared, throwing an arm around Connie's shoulder and smirking. "It's almost endearing!"

"Imagine if you were in my position," Marco pleaded, ignoring his little sister. "Imagine if you were alone for centuries, treated like a monster for being born different, what would you do? I had the chance to stave off my loneliness, and I took it. I'm sorry it turned out the way it did, but I could never regret it!"

"You manipulated us," Armin said dully. "You stole away our basic rights as human beings for your sick pet project."

"I saved your lives," Marco reminded. "And then I let you go. Everything I have done, I have done with your best interest in mind."

"You're a liar," Armin snapped. "You're a liar, and a fake, and you can't understand what it's like to be trapped under your thumb, because you don't have to live with the consequences of your actions! You can just make it so it wasn't so! You could erase this very moment from our minds, and act like none of this even happened, and we'd be none the wiser! You are a nothing but a tyrant playing _pax in terra_, and I've had enough. You cannot say you have our best interest when you take away our free will. You can't be benevolent when you're selfishly using our lives to make your own worth something!"

Marco listened.

His mind was shaking.

Armin was pouring these words into Marco's head.

He was setting them on fire and hurling them into Marco's brain.

He was using every ounce of his mental strength to pierce Marco to the bone.

And it was working.

He felt like something in him had shattered.

Something was oozing, and it was not his blood.

He wavered.

He stared.

And then he began to laugh.

He covered his face, his laughter a strangled mismatch of sounds and voices and he felt words oozing from his mouth, words that made no sense as he dropped to his knees and screamed. Armin was inside his head, Armin was outside his head, Armin knew and Armin understood, and all he could do was stand and watch as his mind shattered Marco's.

No. That wasn't true.

Marco's mind had never been whole to begin with.

He sobbed into his hands, screaming and screeching and begging for it to stop, because he couldn't do it, he couldn't do it, he just couldn't do this dumb act anymore where he pretended that it was okay to lose everything over and over with every life gained and lost in a matter of minutes and hours and days and weeks and years and decades and centuries, and suddenly he was watching generations flicker away into dust.

He screamed for them, his lost friends, his lost family, for those he knew and loved and lost and for those he would lose inevitably in the oncoming sandstorm of time.

He begged for it to end.

He begged.

The sun could not rise again tomorrow, not with these suffering minds swirling inside of him.

He was them, and they were him.

They could not know what they did to him.

They were truly an integral part of who he was.

All he had wanted was to save them…

All he had wanted was to end it all…

The loneliness…

The pain…

End it all…

End…

He felt a pair of tiny hands on his face. He sobbed in relief at the muted mind of a burning sun, and he grasped her hands and laughed at her.

"You!" he cried, perhaps straight into her head. "You and I are just the same!"

She stared at him.

Historia. History.

She was the only one who could share in his suffering.

"You see," he gasped, "you see? This is what it's like to lose everyone, to lose everything, to be nothing! Do you want that? Do you want to be alone for eternity?"

Her eyes were silver.

His breath was gone.

"I'd rather be alone for the whole of eternity," she whispered, "than spend it with you."

The silver light was a blessing.

End.

End.

End.

He felt a noose around his neck.

He'd never imagined this scenario.

He'd never thought her brave enough to choose eternal solitude.

But Marco was no god, and he was truly wrong about so many things.

He would welcome this death.

After all, had he not asked the world to free him time and again?

If he squinted through the daze of silver light, through the dazzling pain of his soul jostling against his bones, he thought he could see the alcove where he and his sister had been hanged from a tree, hanging, hanging, hanging for hours and hours and hours with no end in sight.

The sunrise had been so silvery that day, and the light had hurt to see.

Going back was a gift.

This girl was a gift.

Death was a gift.

But it ended.

"Historia," Armin said. "That's enough."

And he so gasped.

And he lived.

Why?

Why?

Why, why, why, why?

He dropped to his knees and screamed so loudly he felt their minds shake inside him, and they clapped their hands over their ears in pain and terror.

All of them except Historia and Armin, who stood before him with twin pairs of pitying eyes, as though one was not dying and one would not suffer forever. All except them flinched from him in horror.

And Jean.

Jean stepped forward from behind the hoard, standing with his head bowed and his emotions bare.

Jean Kirschstein was disappointed in him.

How strange.

"You are," Jean said unsteadily, his breath shaky as he spoke, "the best friend that I ever had. But you… you feel a sense of entitlement to this world, Marco, because you were wronged by it so many times. But you've… you've done it wrong too. You can't just shed your humanity and expect everyone to just declare you god. You're wrong. You're wrong, and I don't want anything to do with you."

Marco lifted his sweaty forehead from the cool tile floor. He raised his tearful face to Jean, who had been the first person in forever to treat Marco like he was human.

Human.

Humans…

Marco's lips trembled.

"Go," he whispered.

He placed his hands over his eyes.

One last trick, and he was gone from their sight.

For good.

* * *

_I think i did a pretty good job making Marco disgusting and pitiable. _

_This is, more or less, the last chapter. Next chapter is the epilogue. It's really long, though, don't worry. Thank you all so much. ='] This fic meant the world. _


	36. free yourself (from hell)

**libera te tutemet (ex inferis)**

**Ashland, Virginia**

_a.d. Non. Nov., 2766 A.U.C._

When Marco had disappeared, the relief had been palpable. Of course, none of them had been convinced that this was the end of the struggle, but for the moment it was a small victory. They had not come to destroy Marco, after all, only retrieve those who needed to be retrieved and possibly get some answers. It was still hazy, more or less, to most of them.

Upon Marco's disappearance, Armin fell to his knees.

"I'm sorry," he uttered, disbelief stretching in his voice. "I'm so sorry, I was such… such a fool… I was so stupid, and I wish I'd been smarter, but I needed to know these things before I—"

"Shut up," Eren said, dropping to his knees beside Armin and pulling him into a swift, tight hug. "Nobody gives a flyin' fuck, okay?"

Armin's disbelieving words were muffled against Eren's shoulder, and Eren thought this was so surreal because he'd been losing faith in the idea that he might see Armin again. But here he was. Alive. Sick as hell, but still alive in spite of everything. Eren could not believe Armin's strength. He could not believe Armin's will. It was so astonishing and so gratifying, and Eren was left with a loss of words.

Erwin's plan had been catering to the idea that Marco was indeed alive and actually the head honcho of the entire situation, which was good, because it had ended up being true. He'd picked Annie and Jean specifically because he wanted Marco distracted. Neither person was someone that Marco could just ignore if they came knocking on his doorstep. Jean had been marginally filled in about the plan, but not enough to tip Marco off. Connie had managed to use his speed to their advantage, running to California and back to retrieve Rico.

Basically, Erwin had ran his plan on a hunch, and he fucking succeeded because Marco was a lot more unstable than any of them had anticipated.

"Um," said a weak voice from behind Annie. Eren glanced up and saw, with a bit of irritation, that it was Bertholdt speaking. After Rico had gotten them all inside undetected, they'd run into Reiner, Annie, Bertholdt, Ymir, and Historia. Eren had no time for reunions, though, because he wanted to be the first one to greet Marco. "What's going to happen now?"

"They're not going to execute you, Bertl," Ymir said dully, whacking the tall boy on the back. "Chill, _ese._"

"I'd like to personally speak with you all," Erwin said, pointing distinctively to Reiner, Bertholdt, Annie, and Ymir, "individually. But not here."

"That's just fucking dandy," Levi said coolly. "But since we're here, shouldn't we do some recon?"

"I know almost everything Marco knows," Armin piped up, removing his head from Eren's chest. "I mean he did manage to hide some things from me… I haven't a clue what the formula is to create the serum he used to engineer us… but I'm glad I don't know things like that."

"Would you happen to know where Marco went?" Hange asked gently. "If they're still in the building, or—?"

"No, he left." Armin slumped against Eren's side, looking exhausted and spent. "I don't know where he went. But I don't think he'll be bothering us anymore."

They all were quiet. Mikasa bent beside Armin, rubbing his back very gently. Their mindlink was kicked back into use as Armin's fleeting thoughts trickled through their heads. _Thank you_, he thought, _thank you, thank you, thank you_…

Eren could feel Armin's love for them expand like a balloon inflating. He loved them. So much so, that it was almost too heavy an emotion to bear without some restraint. But Eren and Mikasa could manage. They were good at sharing the loads, and this feeling was so important that they could not afford to let it fall.

_You'll never have to deal with something like this alone again_, Eren thought to him firmly. _Never_.

_We'll be here_, Mikasa thought without missing a beat, her body leaning closer and her emotions bare for them to feel as contentment and fear toiled up like a storm within her. _We're here for you. Forever. Don't ever try to go it alone again, Armin, please_.

Armin's bony shoulders began to shake. There was no sound as he buried his face in his hand, but he was sobbing, and his fear and pain and loss were so immense that Eren felt his eyes sting and his throat close up and his heart wrench from the earth quaking power of it blasting through his mind. He bore it though. He could bear any agony if it meant keeping his friends by his side.

"I'd hate to interrupt such a tender moment," Rico said, materializing from within the wall behind them, "but there are guards in this facility. And numerous doctors. I actually just barely dodged Dr. Jaeger."

"My dad?" Eren blurted, his head shooting upward in alarm. A frantic sort of pressure pushed upon his chest at the thought of facing that man. "He's here?"

Rico glanced at him as though she had forgotten his last name was Jaeger, and she blinked confusedly. "Uh," she said, "yes. So I'd suggest leaving as soon as possible. I can take two or three people at a time, but only for a very short period. As most of you already know, but there are some new faces here."

"Bertholdt and I can hold off any guards coming this way," Reiner said, looking directly at Erwin. Eren was surprised, because had he not been loyal to Marco not ten minutes ago? What the fuck was up with him?

_Eren_, Armin thought, a wavering sound that fluttered in and out of his head like the beat of a bird's wings through the current of the wind. _I think you should go talk to your dad_.

"What?" he blurted aloud, leaning away from his tiny friend. Mikasa looked surprised as well, her lips parted open as she stared at Armin confusedly. "Why would I do that? Why should I?"

_Because_, Armin thought, clearly not trusting his voice, _he loves you, and you may never see him again_. _Eren, our lives are so fleeting. Don't live on and regret not taking my advice in this moment, don't let this loose end go untied. Talk to your father_.

If it had been anyone else, even Hange, Eren would have argued and pitched a fit so furious it would've shaken the entire building. But it was Armin. And Eren trusted Armin unconditionally. He nodded vacantly, pressing his hand to Armin's limp hair and wishing there was something he could do to make his suffering end. Armin did not deserve to be under such terrible stress, to believe that there was so little hope left. He'd given up on living already, Eren could sense it just from his shaky body and his shaky mind, the connection drawn and so telling that it hurt.

"I'll be right back," Eren swore, rising to his feet.

"Eren, where—?" Hange started, looking a little startled but mostly curious.

"I'm gonna go find my dad," he said, marching forward. "I've got a few things I gotta say. Don't try to stop me, 'kay?"

Hange blinked at him in disbelief. "Stop you?" They threw their head back and laughed, throwing an arm over his shoulder. He glanced at them in surprise. "Do you know how long I've wanted to talk to Grisha Jaeger? I'm just _aching_ to ask him all my questions!"

"You two are nut jobs," Rico stated dully. "He's on the floor below us if you really want to get yourselves trapped here."

"That won't happen," Eren said firmly. "I won't let it. Hange?"

"Let's go, bud," they said, ruffling his hair and starting forward through the crowd of them. Historia was watching him the most keenly while Bertholdt and Reiner merely looked astonished. Ymir looked bored.

"I'll go with you," Historia said, stepping up in time with Eren's footsteps. No one objected. After all, she was more than capable of killing any of them.

She was capable of killing Marco, if she was in the mood to do so.

For a such a little thing, she was really creepy and terrifying.

"Cool," Eren said, resisting the urge to beam at her. "Why, though?"

"He's a doctor," she said simply. As if it were obvious.

"We're going to get Armin out of here," Erwin said, bending down and scooping Armin into his arms. Eren stared, and noted how alarmingly tiny Armin was in comparison. "Anyone who wants to come with us may as well. Though I'm warning you, I want explanations for your behavior up until this point."

"That's something we can definitely do," Reiner said.

"You three," Levi said, addressing Eren specifically with his dark eyes. "Hurry up. Or we'll leave you here."

"Yeah, okay," Eren snorted, whirling away and striding down the hall. He had no patience for anything at the moment, and his mind was fixated a bit on the thought of speaking to his father. He'd gone through this before. In London, in Paris, in Rome. He'd been through this anxiety and confusion, and he was done wondering and caring what his father had meant by getting involved in something as horrendous as human experimentation.

The truth was, Eren didn't know if the things that had happened to them were as bad as he thought they were. They'd been cured of terrible maladies, true enough, and it wasn't as thought they hadn't been willing participants. It all boiled down to the morality of it, and Eren just wasn't sure if he was right or wrong to judge his father for the things he had done.

They did run into a few guards on their way to the lower floor, following the doors to a stairwell that descended a further into the ground. Hange took care of them with some swift thinking and a swifter gun hand. Yeah, they were knocked out pretty fucking fast. Eren would never not be in awe of his adoptive parent. They truly had a gift for fucking shit up. It was beautiful.

"Are you okay?" Eren asked Historia as they moved down the steps. She was looking rather distant and bemused, not unlike her normal self, but Eren couldn't help but be concerned. She'd been with Marco for a little while, and who knew what the guy did to her head, right?

"Tired," she admitted, staring vacantly ahead of her. She turned her face away, and shrugged meagerly. "Sad."

"Sad," Eren repeated quietly. "Why?"

She glanced at him. Eren was consistently thrown for a loop when it came to Historia Reiss. He didn't know what she was thinking or feeling, and he didn't get why she was always so gloomy. He wanted her to be happy, but not that weird fake-happy shit she'd pulled for the first few months he'd known her. Sometimes Eren thought she was a lot like Armin, but other times he was just utterly lost at how they were even related.

"I just am," she said dully. "Do I need a reason?"

"Yeah, kinda?" Eren blinked rapidly, and he jumped when Hange's hand clapped on his shoulder. He glanced up at them, and he saw their sharp warning look. That confused him even more.

"Eren," Hange said, "come on. Sometimes sadness is like that, don't be rude about it."

"Oh," Eren said. He thought perhaps he could understand, if only by Hange's prompting, that Historia's sadness was more or less her depression peeking through. Eren didn't have any experience with that sort of stuff, so he couldn't be sure. He knew Hange knew better, though. So he listened to them. "Sorry, Historia."

"Don't worry about it." She tucked her hair behind her ear, looking a bit miserable. Eren wished he could make her feel better, but he didn't know how, so he was left feeling inadequate and stupid. He caught Historia's arm as another guard came rounding the corner, pausing upon looking at them. Then the guy promptly threw his hands up. Hange smiled at him brightly.

"Thank you!" they laughed, twirling their stungun. "Can you point me to where Grisha Jaeger is?"

"Down the hall a bit," the guard said, "uh… left. Go left. Big door, can't miss it."

"You're great," Hange said, rounding the man and gesturing for Eren and Historia to follow. Eren decided to flip the guard off just because, and Historia stood beside him, watching him with dull eyes and a small smirk. "Oi, Eren!"

"Yeah, yeah," he said, taking Historia's hand and drawing her forward. He felt a sensation of great pride as she turned around to flip the guard off just the same. The guy just looked at them like they were fucking crazy. "Hey, so what happened that night Ymir kidnapped you? Like how are you not mad at her about that?"

"Would you be mad if Mikasa or Armin dragged you out of bed in the middle of the night to go somewhere?" Historia glanced at him, and he scowled. She nodded, clearly already knowing the answer. "Yeah. See, I love Ymir. She's ridiculous, but I love her, and I'm okay with what she did for the most part. She was under Marco's thumb a bit, so I understand her reasoning. I know you hate her, though."

"Yeah, well, that can't be helped." Eren shrugged. His feelings about Ymir hadn't changed too much, but he wasn't gonna kill her or beat her up or even vocally express his hatred. He understood it wasn't fair, but he couldn't help his feelings on the matter.

"Is this it?" he asked, pointing at a large metal sliding door that greeted them as they neared the end of the hall. "Looks like you need a special pass to get in, Hange."

"Son," they said, rolling up their sleeves. "Please. I am an _expert_."

"Yeah, okay, you do your thing," he snorted.

He leaned back and waited as Hange set to work on hacking the sensor. Historia folded her arms across her chest, staring ahead of her with that same vacant stare she always wore, because she was sad, or because she was empty, or because she was just as lost as what to do now as he was.

"What will you do?" Historia asked him without sparing him a glance. "When Armin dies?"

"He's not going to die," Eren snapped at her, his anger too immense to rein in. She glanced at him with a plainly incredulous gaze, and she shrugged.

"Eventually he will," she said simply. He opened his mouth to object, but she went on without letting him, her voice becoming harder and bitterer with every word she spoke. "I've been thinking about it since I got here. Marco kept telling me that I could stop it, stop all of you from growing old and dying, and I… I want that. I want to be able to keep you all young and healthy like me forever." She turned her face away, and her entire body seemed to crumple like wet sand. "But as selfish as I am, I won't take away your lives just so you can humor me for a few centuries. I'm… I'm stronger than that, I think. I'm stronger than Marco."

Eren didn't know what to say. He'd never expected this from her. What was this? A candid sort of declaration from a girl who seemed to hate herself more than Eren could understand? He wanted to be here for her, to let her know that it was okay if she wasn't strong, but he appreciated her words, and he wanted her to be right.

"Historia…" Eren clapped her on the shoulder, making her jump in alarm. "I'm gonna make you a promise. You will never, ever have to be alone. We'll be here… for as long as we possibly can. And when we're gone, I guess, you'll have our kids— which, I mean, I'm sure some of us will have kids!" Eren found himself flushing in shock of his own words. "Hell, I never even really thought about it before, but like, hell, I might have kids, and they might have kids, and you can be a part of their lives like you're a part of mine. So you don't have to be scared, or sad, or anything because you think you'll be left by yourself." He smiled at her firmly. "You ain't gonna age, right? Well, you can make sure my like, great great grandson doesn't fuck up his entire future and join a gang or do some hyped up future drug or somethin'. You can just tell him that you didn't deal with his great great grandfather's bullshit so he could fuck up his entire life, like Jesus boy."

She was laughing. It was nice to hear her laugh.

"You're so weird," she gasped, covering her mouth with her hands and turning away from him to muffle her giggles. "Maybe I don't want to babysit your descendents for the rest of my life, ever think of that?"

"Who wouldn't want to hang out with a bunch of baby Jaegers all day?" Eren asked blankly, fully satisfied when she laughed harder. "Anyway, seriously. Don't sweat the whole loneliness thing. Marco was just really fucked up, I think."

"He was," Historia said cautiously after she stopped laughing. Hange was standing by the sensor, listening to them. Eren realized they'd finished hacking already, and had been waiting patiently. "But… I do think he had the right intentions… and so did I. When I almost killed him. I wanted to… to give him the freedom he wanted so badly. But then I got scared. And then Armin stopped me. So now he's out there somewhere, and he might be anywhere. I don't know. But as glad as I am that I controlled it, I almost wish I didn't, because then we wouldn't have to worry about him ever again."

"Don't beat yourself up over that," Eren sighed. "I… I mean, I beat the shit outta him, yeah. But you've done so much already, and if you felt like he didn't deserve to die, then I trust that."

She stared at him in awe.

He let her stew in that awe, if only because his attention was shifted to the door and more importantly the man who resided in the room behind it. He started forward, leaving Historia to think on her own, and he nodded to Hange. The door slid open for him to enter, and as he did he felt his anxiety return with a grand swoop of fear and rage and uncertainty.

The room was rather like what Eren imagined the laboratory of a mad scientist would look like, if that mad scientist were more organized and less chaotic than Hange (who had their own mad scientist lab of a different caliber). There were so many different instruments all around Eren that he felt like he'd just walked into a biologist's safe haven— there were microscopes so advanced that Eren could hear Hange's breath catch in utter disbelief and excitement. He was kinda excited himself, in all honesty, because holy shit this was a lot of equipment.

He stared at the back of the man sitting across the room, leaning over a microscope and ignoring them like the asshole he was. He found himself flipping through a white rectangular box sitting on one of the tables near him, which was full of the kind of homemade slides kids made in their first year biology classes. Only each slide was a small blot of blood staining the surface of the cover slip, and each slide was marked accordingly with a name.

He pulled out the slide marked _Eren Jaeger_ and began to twirl it between his fingers.

"Hey," he said, his voice hoarse and shaky. "Dad."

The man did not crumple or jolt or react in any remarkable way. In fact, he did not react at all. He merely continued to peer into his microscope as though Eren had not spoken at all. It made him feel furious and foolish and above all, fatherless. What a joke this had been.

Eren dropped the slide onto the floor and crushed it beneath his heel.

"Did you go fuckin' _deaf_?" he snarled at his father, twisting his ankle to grind his heel into the shattered glass, listening to it crunch. "Or are you really so scared to look at me that you just think _ignoring_ me, like you've done my _entire life_, will make me go away?"

His father turned. He wasn't so different than how he'd been when Eren had been younger, but now his face was a bit gaunt and sunken and his eyes a little duller and his hair a little thinner. Little whiskers of his mustache were salted gray. There were dark, plump circles ringing the lids of his eyes beneath his glasses. He did not straighten up, nor did he look at Eren directly. He merely stared dully at the space beside Eren, as though the shadow he was casting was a far more interesting sight than that of his missing son.

"Hello, Eren," his father said, his voice crisp and clear. "You look healthy."

Eren wanted to shout at him that he actually was not, that he had diabetes and was narcoleptic and that the motherfucker would know that if he'd even bothered to come and fucking find him, but he didn't. He bit back his rage filled words, and he stared at the man who had half raised him, wondering what kind of man could do what he had done to so many unfortunate, unwilling souls.

Eren didn't need to say a word. There was a long, shrill cry of fury, and the meaty smack of a fist hitting flesh, and Eren merely watched in muted awe as Hange decked his father so hard he went toppling into his table.

"Whoo!" Hange hooted, shaking their hand a bit. "Ah, did I break your jaw? Sorry, I've just been wanting to do that for years."

_Hange is my hero_, Eren thought as he stared at his adoptive parent with sparkling eyes, leaning forward excitedly as they turned around and peered into his father's microscope. "Hey, these are some fucked up blood cells!" Hange laughed, twisting to face Eren. "Look a bit like yours, boy wonder."

"Just broke mine," Eren said, lifting his foot and listening to the glass clink together softly.

"Huh," Hange said, grasping the slide and pulling it away from the microscope. Eren's father merely watched, looking rather somber as Hange held the slide up to the light. "Wowie, would you look at that! Historia, it's your blood!"

Historia was standing just behind Eren, looking just as somber and unamused as his father did. She folded her arms across her chest, and stared at the man pointedly.

"I got blood work done this morning," she said carefully.

"Why the fuck did you get blood work done?" Eren's eyes flickered to his father's face. The man simply stood, and he stared, and Eren felt furious once more. "That's so like you, ain't it? Just take things for no reason for the sake of your goddamn science project!"

"Eren…" Historia whispered, catching his elbow. When he glanced down at her, she shook her head at him furiously, and he felt a sinking feeling in his chest. He was wrong. "I asked for Dr. Jaeger to take my blood. I thought it might help. Armin, I mean."

"Oh," Eren said flatly. Well, how was he supposed to know that, huh? "Well, what's that gonna do?"

He heard his father take a deep breath. When Eren glanced at him, the man was a bit hunched over, his eyes focused on the ceiling. It was a strangled sort of breath, the sound of someone inhaling sharply in distress. Eren frowned.

"I wanted to see if it was possible," he father said slowly, "to synthesize an ink from Historia's blood that would work to strengthen a person's immune system to the point where the chances of becoming ill with anything are exceedingly low."

"An… ink?" Eren asked distantly. He noted Hange's eyes on his father's face, the look of startling interest and unwavering curiosity. They almost looked at his father as though they knew exactly what they were talking about. "Like, inside a pen? That makes no sense."

"Not like a pen, Eren," his father sighed, closing his eyes. "Tattoo ink."

Oh.

Eren stood with his mouth open as he registered those words.

Then it hit him.

"Oh!" he gasped, holding his head and jumping up and down, "oh, oh, oh!

"What?" Historia asked weakly.

"Levi!" he cried. "Levi's tattoo! It keeps him healthy!"

"Okay, but…" Historia bit her lip, and she took a step forward. "Dr. Jaeger, would that sort of thing… because it's Armin's skin… would it be able to get rid of a tumor?"

"I'm not certain I could even create the serum and then synthesize the ink, Historia," his father told her gently. "And if I was… the chances of it being ready in time…"

"You're useless," Eren hissed. He didn't know what he'd been expecting. He was so angry, and he was so sick of looking at this man, but his throat was closing up and he felt like sobbing.

"But say, hypothetically," Hange said urgently, "that it was. Would it get rid of the tumor?"

"When we first did Armin's procedure," his father said carefully, "we removed the tumor before using the serum. If possible, I would suggest doing the same again. Tumors are mysterious things, and I would not risk leaving it up to an experimental healing ink when the problem could be easily eradicated."

"Huh," Hange said, leaning back against the long table his father had been working at. They had a look on their face that suggested they knew something very important, but would not tell a soul out of spite. They smirked, and whistled lowly. "Well, then! What would this ink even do, if not heal him?"

"It'd prevent the tumor from ever returning, for one thing," his father said, pulling off his glasses and cleaning them on his coat. "I… I'll be the first to admit, this is all a guess of sorts. Armin has be the singular most difficult patient I've ever encountered while working on this project in terms of how… _poorly_ his body receives treatment." His father shook his had fast, looking a bit distraught. "Don't get me wrong, Miss… ah, Hange?"

"Hange is fine," they said, tilting their head a bit as though what Eren's father was saying was fucking fascinating. Which, maybe it was, but he was too angry to care.

"Armin is extraordinarily gifted," he said firmly. "He has, by far, the most brilliant brain I've ever encountered. He has a frightening amount of power built up inside of him, with no place to store that kind of raw ability, and he's astonishingly willful for a boy with such a frail body. But even a child with his mental strength cannot fight a failing body, you must understand that. There is a very good chance there is nothing I, or any other doctor, can do."

"Fuck you," Eren snapped.

"Eren," Hange warned. "Apologize to your father."

"_What_?" He took a rapid step back, spluttering as he went, and he jerked a finger at the man and spat, "You just fuckin' punched him!"

"Yes, because he's an asshole who abandoned his son, that's been established," Hange said, their eyes narrowing as they smiled brightly. "However! Your dad is doing his best to try and save Armin, despite the fact that he hasn't any real reason to, right? Now, he's in this lab working on a cure of some sort for him, probably knowing Marco jumped ship. Am I right, Dr. Jaeger?"

His father merely nodded, staring at Hange with a vacant sort of surprise.

Eren stared at Hange, trying with all his might to keep his cool, to keep his anger in check, to keep himself from falling apart at the seams.

But he couldn't.

He rounded on his father, his eyes welling up with tears, and he spat at him with a croaky voice, "Why didn't you ever look for me?"

And his father looked at him, perhaps for the first time since Eren had entered the room, and there was this worn look of resignation that bent upon his face, sinking into the hollows of his cheeks as he swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing pitifully. His glasses were hanging limply in his long fingers and his eyes were the same crystalline green as Eren's down to the tears gathering in the depths of them.

"I did, Eren," his father said softly, putting his glasses on and turning away. "I saw that you were safe. And happy. And loved. I did not want to take such a precious future away from you, not when I had nothing left to give."

If Eren had been someone else, someone thick skulled like Jean or detached like Annie, maybe he could have just brushed off his words and hated him for his crimes against him, but everything in him was screaming to run at his father and hug him and beg him to never leave again, for this to be a scene from a movie that everyone cringed at because it was such a sickly sweet sight, so corny and dumb and overrated, but Eren wanted that so dearly, he wanted to be able to hug his father and tell him that he forgave him for what he'd done.

But he didn't forgive him.

Eren could hardly look at him without feeling sick.

And even still, tears wear falling hot and steady against his flushed cheeks, and he was shaking in his rage and his confusion, and he wanted to scream and throw a tantrum and beg and beg and beg for his father to forget all that had happened and forget that he'd been so wrong and come back to New York and live with all of them and Hange and it made no sense but he _wanted_ it. He wanted that safe feeling of being loved, and being secure, and knowing that this man was the father that he should have been for all the years he'd been gone. A father should be kind, and a father should be loving, and what had Eren's father been if not a distant shadow flitting in and out of his life since birth?

"You," Eren whispered, his voice nothing but a spitting wisp of a breath, "were right about one thing. You don't… hold… anything for me… not meaning, not love, not anything. And I wish you could see what a mess you've made. Of me, of everything— but honestly, I— I'm done with you. I'm done. I'm done searching, scared of what I'll find, because now I know how _pathetic_ you really are!"

He whirled away, rubbing his face furiously and biting his tongue as a sob came crashing like a hurling wave up his throat and against his teeth. He'd scream if it could've helped, but instead he washed his face in his tears and let the sound of his own footsteps serve as a beat to the future he would make without his father to contaminate.

Hange ran after him, catching him in the hall by the arm and pulling him hard into a hug so tight he could not breath without a strange spike of pain jolting through his ribs. Hange had been there. Hange had taken him in, fed him and clothed him and let him cry and speak his mind and go out of his mind with the things he was passionate about. Hange had never once judged him, and they had always made their choices with Eren in mind.

He bent his head into their shoulder, and he began to sob, because he could not hold in his sadness any longer, and he could not imagine having anyone else with him at that moment. He was so grateful for the gift he'd been given, almost thankful that his father had abandoned him in order that he live a happy life at Hange's side. Because Hange listened, and Hange understood, and Hange was here. They held him, cradled his head as he wept, and rubbed his back soothingly.

"It's okay," Hange breathed into his hair. "We're okay. Keep crying, you deserve it, Eren, you deserve to be upset that he abandoned you. You deserved better."

He was breathless and shaky and dizzy and sickened, but even in his disoriented state, even with his hiccups and sobs and broken words, he managed to pull himself from Hange's arms and stare them right in the eyes with tears reddening his cheeks and glassy eyes that made him look furious and half-dead as he spoke.

"I had better," he whispered. "I did. I had you…"

Hange stared at him, looking vaguely astonished, but mostly proud. They laughed, and they said, "Oh, boy. Then you're gonna love what I found."

Eren stared back, his eyes wet and his vision bleary, and by Hange's beaming expression, he allowed himself to feel hopeful.

* * *

**Manhattan, New York**

_a.d. pr. Id. Nov., 2766 A.U.C._

Armin explained what he could about the institute, Marco, and the situation they were in. He tried to make it clear, but he was having trouble speaking properly, and it became difficult for him to talk for long periods of time. So he told them in parts. Gave them little ideas about how truly sad Marco's life had been. Mikasa didn't know if she cared of if she was still enraged for being tricked for so long.

There were a lot of things that needed to be sorted out. For one, Armin had to be operated on. Mikasa was scared of that, solely because she didn't know if she trusted anyone to do the job correctly, and she didn't want Armin to be in any more pain or discomfort. But she had no say in this matter, so she kept her feelings to herself and let the adults debate on when and where and who, while Armin sat quietly in a chair with his bare fingers tracing the lines of Eren's hand.

Then, of course, there was the question of the journalists.

Erwin apparently had connections within the _Brigade_ that no one knew about, and since he'd become acquainted with Hitch of all people, he was working a bit over time to straighten out the newspaper. That involved a merger between the _Brigade_, and Pixis's paper, the _Garrison_, which Rico worked for. Rico was not happy about it, and came over often to complain to Erwin, only Erwin was hardly ever home so she ended up just settling for whoever would lend her an ear.

"I don't want to work here," Rico said firmly. "I loathe New York, I've always loathed it, ever since I first came to America."

"That sucks, bro," Reiner said, scooping up a great dollop of hummus onto a pita chip and tossing it into his mouth. Since they'd gotten Armin and Historia back, Reiner and Bertholdt and Annie had returned to living with Hange. Ymir had decided to stay with Connie and Sasha, strangely enough, despite the fact that it separated her from Historia. Historia explained that she and Ymir had agreed that they didn't need to be together all the time, and Ymir was very fond of Connie and his family, though she wished she wasn't.

"I'm not your bro, _mate_," Rico said to him coldly. "I'm still pissed that I'm not allowed to do a story about any of this."

"You'd be revealing our existence to the entirety of the world," Bertholdt blurted, his eyes widening. "Yours included!"

"Yeah, so?" Rico glared at him, and she adjusted her glasses. "The people deserve to know."

"Have you never seen X-Men?" Jean asked dryly. In the week after the rescue mission, he'd prompted his mother to move to New York. After all, he was a bit alone in Chicago, and he was hardly ever there anyway. His mother was taking care of preparations while Jean stayed in Ymir's old room.

"Don't you think the world is a little more advanced than to start a holocaust to rid themselves of people like us?" Rico asked him with narrowed eyes.

"No," Jean snorted, snatching the bag of pita chips from Reiner and sticking one between his teeth. He'd recently stopped smoking, and Mikasa noticed his teeth were whiter. That was nice to see. "The fact that you do is kinda alarming."

"Don't rag on her just because she believes in people," Eren snapped at Jean. He'd been abnormally somber since the entire mission, and Mikasa found herself constantly at his side, trying to make things easier for him. But she knew what he'd said to his father that day, and she knew how it was eating him alive, and she knew there was nothing she could do to help but be there for him.

"I think what Erwin is trying to do," Reiner said, waving a chip around, "is give you and anyone else who knows about us a way to report us to the media without actually giving away all our secrets."

"That's what the _Brigade_ was initially for," Bertholdt piped up. Everyone glanced at him, even Reiner, who looked bewildered. "Reiner doesn't remember being told that, but yeah, that's why the _Brigade_ was created, so the abnormalities could be regulated and the media could be satisfied with the scraps of information they were given."

Annie entered the room at that moment, wandering over to Jean's side and fishing a chip out of the bag he was holding. Jean looked properly irritated, but he was growing used to the pains of sharing an apartment with so many people, and merely accepted it.

"Where have you been, princess?" Jean asked her, a bite in his voice. She looked at him so coldly that he turned his face away, a small choking sound gathering in his throat.

"With Armin," she said dropping into a kneeling position beside Reiner. "He's sleeping now, though."

"Ooh, with _Armin_, huh?" Reiner wiggled his eyebrows, and Annie gave him a long, withering look. "Oh, don't give me that look, you totally like him."

"Reiner," Annie said, straightening her shoulders. "I think you're confused. Please get that childish bullshit out of your head."

"And she was also with Historia," Eren pointed out. "So nothing happened, clearly."

"We'd know if something did," Mikasa admitted.

"Not that anything would," Eren continued, "because it's Armin. And stop looking at me like that, Annie, holy shit, you're exactly the same. Of all the people living in this house, you two are the least likely to hook up."

"Okay, I'm outta here," Rico said, standing up and whirling away from them. Mikasa though she heard her mutter that she hated teenagers, but she couldn't be sure. The woman left through the wall without a thought.

"So what _were_ you doing?" Jean asked, glancing at Annie as she nibbled on the edge of her pita chip.

"Talking," she said simply.

"That's boring," Reiner snorted. "You're so boring."

She glanced at him sharply, giving him a look that prompted Eren to think that she was offended that he had the audacity to even speak to her. When Reiner began to look uncomfortable, Annie turned to Eren and asked him if they were patrolling that night.

Things had calmed down enough that none of them really knew what to do with their lives at this point. Their missions had been linked to the institute in some way, every time, but now they had no worry or care about what the institute had in store for them. Reiner and Bertholdt had explained to the adults their reasoning for siding with Marco, and though Mikasa had not been told, she could guess. Marco was… charismatic and sweet, and he had an amazing talent that focused on making people feel loved. It was a nice talent to have, but with Marco it wasn't so nice because Marco was also… manipulative, unfortunately, and lonely. She was angry she'd ever let him worm his way into her heart, and even then she was sad when she even thought of his face, because even though she was enraged and disgusted by all that he had done, she pitied him.

Anyway, the adults had accepted Bertholdt and Reiner, but they had a lot to prove. They were willing to do anything to get back in good favors, but they were also getting counseling— for a number of reasons, but mostly because they were both a bit mentally unstable. According to Armin, at least, and Armin would know. Both boys had agreed, because they seemed to understand that they actually truly needed the help.

They'd begun patrolling at night around the city, which was a familiar sort of boring activity that she'd never particularly liked, but here she was, doing it all over again. It wasn't as exciting or as organized as going on missions, but she did not expect it to be. Also, it was actually a little more gratifying to beat up thugs for a change.

Somehow, though, she felt as though there was something missing.

She spotted Levi moving through the foyer, and she hastily excused herself. Levi had been in his room for most of the evening, and she wasn't sure why, but now she had a chance to ask. He glanced at her as she appeared behind him at the door, and he grabbed a jacket from a hook and tossed it at her. He didn't seem to be in the mood to argue, and she was glad. She followed him out of the apartment, shrugging on the jacket— which she knew right away to be Eren's by the scent and the fact that it seemed to fit her well.

"You're worried," he noted.

"No shit," she replied, shooting a sharp look at the back of his head, which he promptly ignored. As they descended the stairwell she adjusted her scarf so it would cover her mouth, bracing herself for the oncoming spat of wind she'd face when they walked outside. "You won't tell us anything about Armin's condition. _Armin_ barely knows anything about his condition! And he's a telepath!"

"Sorry to say," he said, pushing the door open and ducking into the great snarl of icy November wind as it slapped her right across the face, "I don't know every goddamn detail about the kid's illness."

"But you know some things," she said desperately, quickening her pace to keep up with him. "You know when the operation is going to be."

"And how do you know that?" He glanced at her, and he scoffed. "Fucking kid needs to keep out of my head."

"He can't help what he hears sometimes," she said coolly. "If he wanted to read your mind, he would know everything he'd need to by now, but he really tries not to. Which is why I'm asking."

"You're wasting your breath," he told her as they moved down the street. "I don't know that much. Erwin's been keeping it very hush-hush, because he's a fucking asshole, and Hange… fucking Hange knows everything, but hey, who am I?"

"Uh," she said vacantly, the sound of the wind and her footsteps blending with the screeching lull of the city around her, "24601?"

"What?" Levi eyed her quizzically, his dull face scrunching up a little. "No. Oh my god. You're a fucking nerd."

"Yes, and you raised me," she sighed. "Congratulations."

"I didn't raise you to be a fucking nerd, you did that all on your own, kid." He stuck his hands into his pockets, peering up at the darkened sky as faint trickles of twilight hung on the horizon, bright around the peaks of the skyscrapers that jutted out like jagged teeth in the cumbersome earth. "Do you want a hot chocolate?"

"No," she lied, as they passed by a small, cozy looking café that she'd seen countless times while walking this block. Levi took one look at her, and he disappeared through the door, leaving her out in the cold to bristle at how transparent she was. She decided to follow him into the café, catching him by the elbow as he stood in line. "I said no, Levi. Don't you ever listen?"

"You think I can't tell when you're lying to me?" Levi rolled his eyes. "Besides, I know you. You're just saying no to spite me."

She folded her arms across her chest and scowled at him. He was utterly infuriating, but what could she do? There was no controlling Levi, and she should know better than to try.

"Mikasa?"

She whirled around at the sound of her name, unused to being recognized in public and a little shocked as she spotted Mina Carolina's round face near the window. She was waving her over eagerly, a bright expression on her face, and Mikasa felt she had no other choice but to wander to her side.

"Hello, Mina," she said quietly, glancing at Levi. He'd taken no notice of her absence, or maybe just ignored it. "Are you here alone?"

"Oh, yeah," Mina laughed, toying with one of her pigtails a little sheepishly. "Well, to tell you the truth, I snuck out. My dad was being super annoying, and I have this show on Saturday that's been driving me nuts. So I left my lesson early to come here." Mikasa noticed that Mina was wearing a heavy white coat that went to her knees, likely hiding her leotard and shorts, because she was still wearing her beige tights. "Come sit with me!"

"Oh," Mikasa uttered, her eyes darting to Levi's back. "Oh, Mina, I… I don't know if—"

"Excuse me," Mina called. "Mr. Levi!"

"Mina," Mikasa said, holding out her hands in order to make the girl stop before she harmed herself.

When she looked back at Levi, she found that he was glaring at _her_, not Mina. So she sat down hesitantly, if only to keep him from making a scene. "I'm sorry," she said slowly. "I didn't expect to see you, and it's… a bit hectic at home right now."

"Annie told me." Mina's eyes were cloudy with sympathy, and Mikasa found herself partially enraged and partially awed that Annie trusted Mina so thoroughly. "Oh, it's so awful. I've never met Armin, but he sounds like such a sweet person— if Annie likes him, than he must be really charismatic."

"He's…" Mikasa was at a loss. Armin was sick, and it was showing, but he was so much better now than he'd been in the previous months. He was eating better, and he was sleeping more, and despite his health worsening his face was fuller and warmer than it'd been in such a long time. It was strange how medicine worked. "He's one of the most amazing people I know."

"Coming from you," Mina said, her eyes bright with something alarmingly like adoration, "that's really something!"

"I…" Mikasa was taken aback. She didn't know why Mina thought so highly of her, but it was strange and it made her feel silly. "Um, thanks. I think."

"I've been meaning to ask you since Halloween," Mina said, taking a sip from her coffee. Mikasa could smell it. It was the faint spicy tang of pumpkin, something she knew was common for this season, but she'd never tried it herself. "Mikasa, have you really never considered a career in dancing?"

"A career?" Mikasa repeated, her voice heightening a bit in shock. "What, are you serious? _Me_?"

"Yes," Mina said, giggling a little. "You! Listen, my manager is really interested in you— he saw the show, of course, considering you were pretending to be me. It took me my whole life to get to the level you are at now. I know it sounds strange, because I should be jealous, but I really want you to succeed in dancing. I think you must be a dancing prodigy, and you could easily get into Julliard if you wanted to."

"I'm not any sort of prodigy," Mikasa muttered, feeling embarrassed and confused. "I'm just really strong. My body's just really strong. I'm good at physical things like that."

"Dancing is so much more than physical activity, though!" Mina gasped. "It's an art, Mikasa, and you're a natural. Please consider it. What are your plans for after high school, anyway?"

Mikasa was speechless. Her plans? She'd thought about it, of course, but not seriously enough to really pick out a college major or a place to go. She figured she'd just follow Eren and Armin, and study extra hard if they got into a place like Harvard or Yale.

"College," she said, "I guess?"

"Then you have no real idea what you want to do with your life, I'm guessing?" Mina looked amused, and Mikasa flushed. "Oh, don't be embarrassed, it's okay! I'd be lost right now if my dad didn't push me into this from the day I could walk. But listen, you could make an incredible career in dancing, so I think you should pursue it. I know the performance on Halloween didn't go all that well—"

"That's a fucking understatement," Mikasa said dryly. She glanced up at Levi as he set her cup of hot chocolate beside her arm. She saw a teabag dangling from his own cup, and she was not even remotely surprised.

"Hi, Mr. Levi," Mina said cheerily, as though she didn't find him intimidating at all. "Um, I'm Mina. I don't think we've formally met, but I heard about you from Mikasa and some people at my dance company. You're healing okay, right?"

"Peachy," he stated coolly. "It's just Levi. My last name is Ackerman, if you want to call me that. I don't really care."

"Oh, good, you're related." Mina sounded relieved, and Mikasa merely glanced up at Levi, feeling as though she should object, but she had no reason to. She didn't know if they were related or not. She didn't want to know. "Well I was just telling Mikasa that I think she can get into Julliard."

Levi stared at the girl, and Mikasa thought perhaps he would scoff or even maybe laugh at the comment, because it was so ludicrous, but that was not the case at all. He merely looked from Mina to Mikasa, and he raised his cup to his lips. "She's not experienced enough," he said simply.

"Oh, no, of course not," Mina said hastily, "I know that, I trained her myself. But because I trained her myself, I _know_ her potential, and I know she can do it. You should really convince her to go for it!"

"Mina, this really isn't necessary," Mikasa sighed.

"You've seen her dance, right?" Mina pushed Levi, somehow completely undeterred by his chilly demeanor. "You know too. I know you've both got your Nio and Freiheit stuff, and I respect that, but I can't see why she can't be a hero and a ballerina, you know? Or, you know, maybe not even a ballerina, maybe she can be a whole different kind of dancer, but the point is she's got a shot. Please think about it, I'm like, I'm begging you, oh gosh." To prove her point, Mina folded her hands and gave them both a pleading stare. Mikasa didn't know why she was pushing this, because if Mikasa became a successful ballerina, what would that do to her career?

Levi had the same thought. "How do you benefit from this?" Levi asked suspiciously.

"You don't like to trust people do you?" Mina looked a little uncomfortable then, and she smiled wanly. "Well, truthfully, I'd definitely get recognition because I taught her. But otherwise, I don't really have much of an investment. My career as a ballerina is already set. Unless I get a terrible injury, I'll do fine in my life. So, yeah. I'm just really enthusiastic about Mikasa getting out there, because I've never met such a talented dancer, and I mean, this is my life. You have to understand, my entire world revolves around this. So, like, I'm really sorry if I'm coming off too pushy and enthusiastic, but when you've been groomed to be a ballerina, you kinda get a one track mind about things. Luckily I'm not competitive much, so I don't care if she becomes more famous than me, or anything." Mina took a sip of her coffee, and she smiled genially at Mikasa. "I'm content with where I am, I think. I just want you to be able to live up to your potential, y'know?"

Mikasa didn't know. She had no idea. She was stunned by this, and she didn't know what to say or do or think or feel. Her future? A ballerina? For real? Little girls dreamed of that stuff. Mikasa had only wanted to be with her friends as a child, but now she was with them, and she couldn't imagine being anywhere else.

"It's a really nice thought, Mina," Mikasa said hesitantly, "but I don't know if I'm cut out for that sort of thing. Can I think about it?"

"Oh, yeah!" Mina waved her hand hurriedly. "Yeah, of course! I guess I'm being super pushy, but I don't know when I'll see you again, and I just…" She laughed a little, glancing away from their faces. "I just want you to continue dancing, that's all."

"That's very sweet of you," Mikasa said, though she didn't know if she believed that. She felt Levi's hand on her shoulder, a sign to stand, and she did so without comment. He was watching Mina with a slightly furrowed brow, and it was strange to think he was considering her suggestion. Mikasa had never felt that she was particularly talented, just lucky to be born with an incredible power. She wondered if he was proud of her, or if he was completely against the whole idea of it.

"I'm sorry to keep you," Mina said, turning her face away. "You can go now, it's okay. You have my number, and I might see you again soon because of Annie, who knows."

"Right," Mikasa said distantly. "Yeah. Thank you."

"Nah, thank _you_," Mina said brightly. "I'm so glad I got to speak with you again."

Mikasa was a little bewildered as she took her hot chocolate and followed Levi out of the café. He was watching her with a somewhat concerned glint in his eyes, and she quickly made herself look a little more focused so he'd stop shooting her sharp glances as though she would tip over at any moment. She took a sip of her hot chocolate, and she relished in the fact that it seemed to burn the skin right off the roof of her mouth as it sloshed and seared down her throat.

"That was strange," Levi admitted.

"I don't think I'd be a good ballerina," she muttered, feeling foolish. "I'm not…"

"You're not…?" Levi gave her a sharp look, which actually managed to startle her, because he looked angry for some reason. "What? What are you not?"

"I don't know," she said softly. "What kind of goal is that? Being a ballerina? Aren't you going to tell me it's a child's dream?"

"It is a child's dream," he said. She closed her eyes, and she listened to the sounds of the city, of the car horns and the feet clapping and the doors slamming and the laughing, chatting, hissing voices that gathered up all around her. She was used to cities, but this one was like a dream, and she realized she might spend the rest of her life here. Where Eren and Armin were. A child's dream come true. So, what was a ballerina? "Mikasa, I hate to break to you, but you're still a child."

"Don't be stupid," she hissed at him, throwing him a vehement glare. "I haven't been a child in a long time. You know that."

He shook his head, and took a great gulp of his tea, shaking his head even more to emphasize how truly he did not give a fuck. "No, see, that's the thing," he said in a hoarse voice. He did not look at her. "I didn't have a childhood. But like hell I didn't try to give you one. And for the most part, I've sheltered you from a lot of terrible things."

"You think," she said slowly, "what you did was _sheltering_ me?"

"Honestly, yeah." Levi shrugged. "Like, you know I didn't actually have a childhood. At all. For real. So despite all the shit you've been through, yes, Mikasa, I still think you're a child. Which is good. Be a child, for fuck's sake. You don't get to be young forever like Historia."

"Oh, don't bring that up," she sighed. Historia was always distant and quiet and reclusive, but since she'd been rescued it seemed as though her depression had worsened. She spent all her time with Armin except when she had to go to school, in which case she hung by Eren's side, and by default Mikasa's. Armin admitted to them inside their heads that he believed she was terrified of being alone, and she often slept in Armin's room nowadays with the excuse that she had nightmares. Since Ymir wasn't around much, Armin was Historia's crutch. He hated that. He wanted her to be able to be independent, but he couldn't very well tell her to sleep in her own room, not when he was scared he might not live much longer. Mikasa and Eren argued with him on this over and over, but he told them it didn't matter, and that he had to think about stuff like that.

"You know what I mean," Levi said. "Just… come on. You're going to grow up eventually, but for now just take it a day at a time. If you don't want to be a dancer, don't do it. But don't let thoughts like "Oh, I'm not pretty enough", or "I'm not talented enough" dissuade you from making that decision. They're not true, so don't do that."

She considered his words as she held onto her cup, watched steam rise in slight curls across the bitter evening air. She stared down at him, finding herself at a bit of a loss. "Did you just call me pretty?" she asked, unable to keep the shock from her tone.

"Oh boy," he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You are dumb as a brick."

"You've never called me pretty before," she said, unsure if she was happy about this development or not.

"I didn't think I _had_ to, oh my god."

"It's just strange, that's all," she murmured.

"You're fucking strange, man," he said. "And annoying."

"And you're fucking rude, and an old man, so, like…"

They were quiet after that, the sound of their feet clapping against the pavement the only sounds emitting from them. Mikasa had never considered herself close to Levi, not really, but she was beginning to see more and more that she was wrong. Levi was hardly kind and loving, but he did care about Mikasa immensely, and that was clear now. She wondered what his life would be like without her. She wondered if he'd be sad, or lonely, or lost. She was glad to have him, but equally irritated beyond belief by the very nature of his callous personality.

"What will you do?" she asked him hesitantly. "When I leave, go off to college, or move away, or whatever?"

He did not respond. That wasn't all that strange, but the question seemed to cause him to close up, which was not something she'd expected.

"Or you can just not answer," she sighed, taking a long swig of her hot chocolate. He was such a frustrating person, she didn't know why she bothered sometimes.

"I have no idea what I'll do," he said simply.

She glanced at him. Truthfully, Levi had barely so much as hugged her in all the time that she'd known him. But she felt as though she was missing something now, and that he was having difficulty expressing himself. That was typical of him.

"You're good at a lot of things," she said, though she wasn't sure if that was necessarily true. "I'm sure you could find something that interests you."

"Maybe," he said distantly. It was strange, because he was an adult, and he was in the same boat as she was in terms of the future ahead. He just didn't know, and she thought maybe that might scare him, as it scared her.

"You can talk to me, you know," she said. When he did not respond, she shook her head slowly. "I know you hate talking about your feelings, but sometimes you really just need to say what's on your mind. I won't let Armin see it, if that's what you're worried about."

"Drop dead, you brat."

She was growing increasingly concerned, which wasn't good because she was already riddled with anxiety because of Armin's uncertain future. "You won't go back to drinking and drugs or anything, right, Levi?"

"I'm not a fucking idiot."

"You could have fooled me," she said coolly.

"What do you want me to say?" He did not look at her, nor did his face change at all from its miserable resting position. "You want the truth? Here it is. I have no idea what'll happen to me. I'm not concerned. My goal right now is to make sure you and all the rest of the squalling little brats live long enough to graduate college."

"Including Armin?"

"He's the one I'm most concerned about," he said flatly. "But yeah, I don't want him to die. I'm not a monster, Mikasa."

"You hate him," she said quietly.

"I'm… put off by him, yeah," he sighed. "But like fuck I'm gonna let that kid die."

It seemed to her that he was being unnaturally sweet. Perhaps she was over thinking it, but it was so strange. This was Levi. Certainly he was candid enough on a regular basis, but he was so reclusive and awkward she could never pull his true feelings out of him. Not that she was much better, but at least she had friends.

Mikasa stared at him, running her fingers over the edge of her cup. She was nervous about this uncertain future, and she knew he was too.

"Levi," she said quietly. "Is Armin going to be okay?"

He looked at her, and she could see the lines of his forehead wrinkle in the dimness of the streetlamps. He didn't know, and he didn't want to say so. She understood there were risks to a brain operation, and she understood that she could very well lose Armin. But what then? How could the would possible go on without him? She didn't understand it, and she felt a cold feeling slithering insider her chest, squeezing in an empty space left inside of her from the day Eren had found her huddled in a panic room, breathless and traumatized from the sounds and the screams and the muffled words of her parents' murderers.

And suddenly she was stumbling back, feeling something hot splash against her ankle and shin and it scorched her skin as hot chocolate soaked into her shoes,. She didn't want to look at her hands, because she was too horrified about her clumsiness, and she didn't think she'd be able to see them because her vision was swimming pitifully. She didn't know what to do.

If she looked at him, she knew he would be expressionless, because she knew that Levi had no idea what to do in this kind of situation. She hardly ever cried, and this was certainly a surprise for them both, because she didn't know how to stop it or what had brought it on. It was just a terrible swoop of emotions overwhelming her, and no matter her strength she could not hold them down. She swallowed very hard, and she could hear her own uneven breaths as the world seemed to tip over and flood up, water turning lights into pale, flickering streams, and Levi's face nothing but a shadow floating blearily before her.

"Mikasa," he said. His voice was distant and quiet and strangely soft. She crouched down, dazed and sickened, and she picked up the busted cup from the sidewalk, staring at it as it shuddered in her shaky hands. He took it from her carefully, prying it from her fingers as though it were something dark and incriminating, and he tossed it in a garbage can, his left hand still gripping hers.

He led her carefully to a bench, pulling his jacket off and laying it down so she could sit on it. She was a little too upset to notice or care, and she sat only because she felt as though her legs were about to give out.

How pathetic she was. She, who was one of the world's strongest, weakened and weepy because of some fleeting memory coming to surface upon an eve or the eve of an eve of a day that'd determine Armin's fate. She folded her quaking hands in her lap, and she wrung them a bit nervously as tears trickled against her cheeks, hot and unrestrained, and her eyes were stinging from the moisture and her throat was dry and sore from the strain. If she spoke, she thought her vocal cords might snap and due further damage like lacerate the walls of her esophagus.

To Levi's credit, he did not speak as she cried. Perhaps he didn't know what to say, or he was to awkward to say it, but she was glad he made no comments because it made the embarrassment easier to bear. She was utterly shattered at the idea of losing Armin, and it was taking its toll on her. She'd been strong until this point, optimistic and resolute for him when around him, but she felt these doubts now, and she felt them streaming inside her and screaming as the collided with her fears and anxieties and despairs. She was strong. She was.

But she was human. And she was scared.

She didn't think she was the type of person who needed reassurance or comfort, but she was craving it so badly that it made her muscles ache, and she was so glad when Levi put his arm around her that she had to cover her mouth with her hand to stifle a sob. It was humiliating, and she didn't want him to see her in such a distraught state, but if anyone could understand her at this moment, it was Levi.

It was a struggle, she realized, all her grief welling up inside her, flooding her with waves and waves of horror and sadness, to remember her father and mother's faces. She tried to imagine her father holding her instead of Levi, imagine him with his arm slung carefully around her shoulders, tentative touches from a tentative soul, but she could not muster up the will to recall that far back, and when she called for her father's face, all her mind gave her was Levi's.

That made her even more upset, and now she had to deal with the consequences of that. When she and Levi returned home, Armin would know immediately that she was sad, and Eren would notice she'd been crying almost certainly, so how was she supposed to face them? How did she admit that it had all become too much, that the pressure had made her truly weakened and sickened by the prospect of an unclear future?

"I…" Mikasa wiped at her face, her voice reedy as it slithered from her throat. "I'm sorry, I…"

"Don't apologize," he snapped at her. Or perhaps he'd merely said it too briskly, and it'd sounded like a snap, she didn't know because her ears felt like they were full of cotton balls. "You're upset. Cry. If you bottle it all up, it'll eat you away. And trust me, Mikasa, that can kill you."

She sniffled, feeling pitiful and childish, and she did not dare look at him. "Was this how it felt?" she whispered. "All the time, for you? Is that why you turned to the… the drugs and the liquor so it'd just go away?"

He did not reply. Instead he wrapped his other arm around her, and turned her to face him. She did not know why, but she was expecting there to be an actual expression on his face. She was mistaken. He looked the same as he did when he was making his shit jokes. But still, she could sense a change in his demeanor, and it almost made her want to scream at him and run away, because this was not how they did things. They were distant creatures at best, and together they were downright dysfunctional.

But here he was, holding her close and urging her to cry.

"Bad things happen," he told her, sounding like he wasn't sure of his words as he spoke them. "People die. People leave you. It's just gonna happen, and you'll be sad about it, but life goes on."

"I know," she choked, "I know, but—"

"I'm not gonna scold you for crying," he told her. "I've cried more than my fair share, and over stupider things than this, I'll fucking grant you."

"I just don't want him to die," she whispered, rubbing her eyes furiously. "I'd do anything… anything to save him…"

Levi held her by the shoulders, and she was too dazed to really care how his eyes narrowed at her. "Even," he said cautiously, "let Marco have him for the rest of his life?"

She closed her eyes, and she felt the tears seep through her eyelashes, splashing across her cheeks, and she wanted nothing more than to scream at him for bringing it up, but the truth was that she did not know. If it kept Armin alive, was it such a terrible prospect? But then, was captivity even truly worth living for? Oh, she didn't know. It was so confusing, and she was so lost, and she only wanted her friend to be healthy and alive.

"You are an idiot," he muttered, pulling her into a stiff hug.

Initially she had no idea how to react, because her face was pressed against his chest, and her tears were blinding her, and she could hardly breathe properly even without him holding her as tightly as he was. She didn't think she'd ever been this vulnerable before, but she knew that wasn't true, and it was hurting her pride very dearly just to let herself be hugged by this man and to know that he meant well. She'd never call him a good father, or a real father by any means, but even so she was greatly indebted to him, and the more she sat and let his shirt soak up her tears, the more she felt content in the strange friendship she and he had developed over the years.

She didn't know, nor did she want to know, if she was truly related to him or not. Levi was her family, that she could very well admit to herself as she hugged him tight and let herself be soothed by the feeling of his hand carefully smoothing back hair. He was hardly an affectionate man, and he was awkward even on his best days, but for once he seemed to know what he was doing.

They did not speak anymore, for there were no real words to speak, and they were not talkative people to begin with. All they did was hold each other, and Mikasa thought that maybe that was the nicest thing about it, because the memory was ingrained into her mind forever, and she didn't think she could ever truly pretend to hate Levi as she often did anymore, because she owed him for the love he hardly showed and the pain he never showed and the uncertainty that he most certainly did show.

She did not want to lose any part of her family. Not today, not tomorrow. She'd die first before she let it happen.

But here she was, powerless to stop it.

_Please_, she thought, closing her eyes as Levi wiped her cheeks with the folds of her scarf, _please don't take anyone else away from me, please_…

* * *

**Manhattan, New York**

_a.d. XI Kal. Dec. 2766 A.U.C._

"You have a cure," Armin said distantly, trying to reaffirm and recollect, because he had no idea what to make of this new development.

"It's not really a _cure_ per se," Hange laughed, waving their hand quickly in the air as though to bat off a gnat. "You're still scheduled to have surgery tomorrow, but considering the, uh, nature of your affliction we think it's best if we make sure it really never comes back."

"I don't understand," he said weakly, his hands folded in his lap. They'd gotten him alone by taking him to the hospital, and now they were telling him that he had a _cure_. How was that even possible? "Please explain, Hange, I'm totally lost."

"Feast your eyes, kiddo!" Hange stuck a test tube of what appeared to be thick black liquid into his face, and he reached for it carefully but they pulled it away from him, waggling their finger. "Ah ah, no touching. If you drop this, you're dead. Well, no, not really, that's an overstatement, but you won't survive a third tumor, I'll tell you that much."

"What…" He peered at the dark substance, attempting to analyze it simply by sight. It was a bit soupy and strange to look at, because it looked as though it was gathering up on the sides of the beaker intentionally, collecting itself in beads of shiny black liquid. And then, to his astonishment, the liquid began to rise. It stirred like a cat being awoken and it floated to the top of the test tube in a gravity-defying stream. "What _is _that?"

"Ink," Hange said, sounding a little awed as she tipped the test tube over, and the substance did not move. "Weird ink, for sure. It's really reacting to you!"

"I… why?" Armin shook his head furiously, his mouth dry and his heart thundering. It was so odd to him that this weird liquid was dancing around in a test tube just because it was near him. He'd seem some weird stuff over the past few years, but this took the cake, probably. It was wriggling around, splattering and rolling up in a swirl of black goo, and it was off putting to say the least. This was his cure? He wasn't sure if he wanted it!

"Let me explain," Erwin said, taking the test tube from Hange and holding it gingerly between his fingers. "Levi was the last of us adults to have his procedure, and though his took the longest, it was by far the most painless. The serum used for him was a mixture of the usual serum we received, and also what I imagine is tattoo ink. As I understand it, the supply of serum was running low at the time, so they used the remainder of it to create this ink. They used half to give Levi his tattoo. The other half they put in storage."

Armin wanted to ask how he knew such a thing, because it was such an obscure bit of knowledge to have. If Erwin had known this all along, why hadn't he spoken up about it until now? It was dreadfully confusing, and his head was hurting a lot. He wished Mikasa and Eren were in the room with him.

"Um…" Armin shot a hurried glance at the test tube, and he felt a sinking sensation as though he'd been lowered into a vat of that particular dark liquid, swallowed up by the syrupy consistency of it.

"A few years ago," Erwin continued, his eyes leveled on Armin's face, "I decided I wanted to slow down the facility's progress. So I asked my old friend, Nile Dawk, who works for the _Brigade_, to procure the ink for me."

Armin was alarmed. His senses were numbed by the medication and the thoughts around him were streaming through him again, so he couldn't make any sense of his surroundings, but he felt the drag and the pull of that strange liquid in the glass, and it was pulled to him too. There was so much of the world that he did not understand, and this thing, this squirming ink, was only part of a greater unknown.

"How'd he manage that?" Armin asked softly.

Erwin smiled amusedly. "Oh, he's got a few tricks up his sleeve," he said, handing the test tube back to Hange. "Flattery, manipulation, blackmail. He's very good at what he does."

"No wonder you're friends," Levi said dryly from the doorway. He'd been quiet, as usual. Armin strained himself to not dip into the stream of pain that was Levi's mind, and he calmed himself through a series of unsteady breaths. He controlled this uncontrollable power. Everyone told him he was strong, and powerful, and that he was so amazing, but he never felt that way. He felt weak. Powerless.

"Okay," Armin said, his voice scratchy as it left his lips sharply. "What have you been doing with it until now?"

Hange laughed. Armin resisted the urge to glare at them, but he felt so spent and so shaken that he couldn't bear the sound, so he placed his head and his hands and focused on the sound of his heartbeat.

He felt a hand on his back, and he lowered his hands a little to glance up at Erwin. Armin wished so dearly that he could hear the man's thoughts, if only to have a place to focus his energy. He took a deep breath, and took Erwin's hand in his, focusing on the prickly feeling of his skin brushing skin. He'd done with a million times, but even so it was strange.

"You know what I did with it, Armin," Erwin said gently. "Just think."

"I'm tired of thinking," Armin said, though his thoughts were whirring inside his brain, flitting like wasps and attacking his nerves. He felt the fluttering of emotions from Hange and Levi both, the concern and wariness, the strangled fear, and he wished they could understand what it was like. He pulled his hand from Erwin's, and he stared down at them, recalling the panic the day he'd first had a seizure, the day when he'd made a mess of his classroom and broken down in front of so many people that their horror had spilt like acid corroding his tongue.

In a flourish, spindly words materialized upon his pallid flesh, dancing along the grooves of his palm and blinking at him innocently. Like ink from a pen or paint from a brush, the calligraphy gleamed and glistened, spitting truths and lies in one grand gesture.

_memento mori memento mori memento mori_

He offered up his hand to the glimmering light, watching it shake pitifully, and the words shook like leaves in a storm despite being only an illusion on his hand.

They all watched him.

"Cicero," he said, finding that he was close to laughter and close to tears. "My suit. You spilt the ink on my suit, and it formed my thoughts."

"Yes," Erwin said, taking his hand and examining it. "This is amazing, Armin."

"It's simple," he mumbled, washing away the words with a flick of his wrist, watching black water splash into the air and fade out of existence. "I can change the way people see me, even if I can't completely read their minds like you. I could change the fabric of reality if I was stronger, but I'm glad I'm not, because that would be frightening."

He rubbed his head, feeling sick and exhausted. He was anxious because he knew his operation would come soon, and though he'd been through it before, it was hard not to dread it with everything inside him. He'd rather lay out in the middle of a road and wait for a car to hit him than go through with this, but then, he was being over dramatic and he was moody from the medicine.

"That's disconcerting," Levi said flatly.

"Thank you for that assessment, Levi," Erwin replied. He took Armin's hands, and he stared into his eyes. "I have every ounce of my faith in the fact that you will recover from this. I'd bet my entire life on it."

"I wish you could see my future," Armin murmured, feeling silly and sad, "so you'd know for sure."

"I don't need to see your future to know that you'll survive," Erwin said, squeezing Armin's hands tightly. Then, much to Armin's surprise, he leaned forward and kissed his hair. Armin felt himself begin to break apart, and the world around him came to ashes and rubble. He closed his eyes and let himself have this moment, even if his feelings were muddled and his senses were muted.

He'd been scared of his power for so long, and scared of Erwin for taking advantage of it, but he understood his error.

Erwin loved him for his weakness and his strength.

That was a comfort to a boy who was a man-made god.

"Do you think I'll become weaker?" he asked uncertainly. Erwin studied his face, his eyes flitting carefully in order to try and understand Armin's reasoning behind his words. "I mean, my power. Do you think I'll be weaker without the tumor?"

"Why would you ask that?" he replied, confusion knitting up his brow.

"I became more powerful when my physical condition progressively got worse," Armin sighed, his fingers itching to wring at something. He settled at twisting the hem of his shirt around and around until he felt it cutting off the circulation in his fingers. "Once the tumor is removed, I don't supposed I'll be able to do the kinds of tricks I used to fool Marco, or…" He turned his eyes to the cup of water his doctor had left for him. He turned his chin up at it, letting his fear prickle up inside him until it was piercing outward, and attaching itself to the cup like invisible tethers. It drew upward shakily, tipsy and shuddering as Armin reached out his hand, beckoning it closer and closer until he could not handle the strain, and it dropped. He blinked rapidly as the paper collided with the floor, spilling water across the linoleum and causing his fingers to twitch. "Ah. I messed up."

"That's creepy," Levi said vacantly.

"That's amazing!" Hange cried, jumping up and down excitedly and rushing to grasp Armin's bare hand. He squeaked at the sudden flow of their mind barreling into his, the rush of thoughts and feelings that were so unfamiliar and raw, and he could not breathe with the strange mixture of excitement and anxiety that plagued Hange's cluttered mind. He tried to calm himself down, tried to remind himself that he trusted Hange, but the truth was that he didn't think he really did trust them, and now their chewy taste, the staleness of tobacco and sweetness of cherries and crispness of kale. He wanted to tear at his own face and scream and cry and snap at Hange for being so careless, but he could not, he could not, he could not.

They knew how he felt anyway.

He was sixteen years old. He'd been burdened with this power for years and years, restricted from physical contact and terrorized by his own mind. Hange was no threat to him. He had no reason to fear them, to distrust them, and yet they hurt him unintentionally. He was saddened by this fact, and it made him want to scream more and more, like the scream had been living inside him, starving for some air, and now it was clawing up his throat trying to break free.

He swallowed it down, and let it rot in the pit of his stomach.

"I guess it is, Hange," he said in a timid, shaky voice, squeezing their hand and feeling as though something had been broken inside of him. Like a chain snaked around his heart had been struck at too many times, and not the links were too battered to stand alone. He took a deep breath. And he smiled.

"Armin…" Hange said slowly. "Oh, don't cry, Armin…"

"I'm okay," he choked, shaking his free hand hurriedly. He didn't think it was a lie. "Really! I'm just… overwhelmed, I think. Don't worry." He looked from Hange to Erwin, and he nodded firmly. "I'm going to be fine."

Later that night, when he was allowed to return him, he explained his situation only to Eren, Mikasa, and Historia. His sister sat at the corner of his bed while Eren and Mikasa lounged on the floor. Eren was lying with his head resting in Mikasa's lap, using her legs as a pillow as he tossed a baseball up in the air and caught it lazily. It was not Armin's baseball. Armin had no idea where he'd gotten it. Eren didn't even like baseball.

"So you're getting a tattoo," Eren clarified.

"Yes, I think so," Armin said, gathering the covers of his bed up around him, and tugging them over his head. He relished in the softness of it against his hair, which would be gone in a few short hours. "Though I'm a little scared because Levi's doing it. I don't want to wake up with a dick on my face."

"Technically you could just remove the dick if you really wanted to," Historia pointed out.

"You're a nice sister," he replied, feeling even more anxious because of her comment.

"It's true," she murmured, pulling her baggy shirt over her knees and letting it swallow up her feet. "You could just make the tattoo disappear."

"Maybe," he sighed, nestling his face into his blanket. "I don't actually know how powerful I'll be without the tumor, so we'll see. Just… guys, please don't let him put anything obscene on me, okay?"

"I'll break his arm if he tries," Mikasa said. With all seriousness. Armin shook their mental link, and thought to her, _Don't do that_.

"It's exciting though," Historia said quietly.

"What is?" Eren asked her, rolling the baseball in his palm.

"Getting a tattoo," she sighed wistfully. "I want one."

"Yeah?" He sat up, tossing the ball up and catching it with ease. "What kind?"

"Ah," she sighed, tugging at her hair. "I don't really… know for sure. I thought maybe roses, but…"

"It leaves a bad taste in your mouth," Armin observed, his eyes moving toward the wall of roses he'd colored in a stupor. He wondered if that had been Marco's doing, or if he'd truly just been having some kind of episode.

"Yes," she whispered.

It had been two weeks since they'd gone to meet their mother, and he still felt a vague emptiness about the entire ordeal. He knew Historia felt similarly, if not worse, and he wished he could be of more help to her, but the truth was they just didn't know each other that well. She was certainly attached to him, and him to her, but they couldn't pretend that they were anything more than strangers who'd bonded very quickly.

"Well," Eren said thoughtfully, "I mean, it's not like you can't get a different kind of tattoo, right? Just make sure it means something, because forever is… a little longer for you than it is for us."

_Eren_, Mikasa chastised him. Historia's tiny shoulders hunched at his words, her eyes widening momentarily before dimming. Eren looked incredibly apologetic when he realized his mistake, but Armin shook his head.

_No_, he said to both of them. _Don't coddle her. She needs to face this thing if she wants to ever overcome it_.

Eren and Mikasa glanced at each other. Eren's thoughts spoke up, bubbling up inside Armin's mind tentatively. _That's surprisingly harsh, considering you're her brother_.

_I don't think_, Armin thought to them curtly, _that she's going to get better if we just dance around the problem. She needs to accept that one day we aren't going to be here. We can't pretend like it won't happen_.

"You guys are talking about me," Historia observed.

They shot hurried glances at one another, and Armin sighed. He understood her, sometimes, but other times he was utterly lost to what she was thinking and that was strange to him. She was such an enigma, and as much as he enjoyed her presence he could not figure her out.

"You know, I'd lie and say we weren't but…" Eren grunted as Mikasa smacked him hard on the back, forcing him to drop the baseball. It rolled slowly against the hardwood, and they all watched it go with a mixture of vacancy and sadness.

The door to Armin's room burst open, and he jumped a little, feeling the odd clash of tastes and minds as they spilt forth onto him. He was a little overwhelmed at first, and did not even understand the reasoning behind this sudden barrage of people shuffling into his room.

"Yo," Reiner said, giving a two finger salute as he tossed a great mound of blankets onto the floor. Armin peeked out from beneath his hood of covers, glancing wildly between Historia, Eren, and Mikasa. But none of them knew what was going on either.

"What are these for?" Eren asked, crawling up to the mound of blankets and tugging one out of the pile. It was adorned with a large picture of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

"A sleepover," Reiner replied, staring at him as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. Armin's mouth dropped open, but he couldn't find it in him to object as Annie walked over and set a stack of pillows on his bed.

"Oh, I…" Armin pushed away his blanket hurriedly, kicking them away hurriedly. "Um, why… exactly…?"

"We figured since you're going to be in the hospital for a little while," Jean said, setting down a large stack of bowls with an assortment of bags sticking out, junk food like chips and popcorn and pretzels, "we might well keep you company."

"Unless you don't want us," Bertholdt blurted, his words a bit muffled by his stock supply of pillows and blankets that seemed to be too big even for him. Armin felt guilty, because Bertholdt's mind was muddled and frightened. Armin didn't think that he was using Armin's power to peek into his mind any longer, but it was hard to tell.

"Oh," he said, shaking his head. "No, don't be silly. I'm just surprised."

"Well isn't that an impressive feat," Annie drawled, her eyes never meeting his. "Surprising you."

"Don't flatter me," he said weakly. "I might have a lot of power, but I don't particularly know how to use it."

"This is my baseball," Jean said, toeing the ball Eren had been playing with earlier. "What is it doing in here?"

"Golly," Eren said dryly, "hell if I know."

"You—!"

"If you start fighting," Annie warned, appearing at Jean's side with flashing eyes, "I will give both of you frostbite."

Eren blinked rapidly at the threat, and then he grimaced as Jean fumed. He got up, and Armin watched in awe as he began to lay out the blankets on the floor, smoothing them out carefully. Mikasa began to help him, and suddenly his room was transforming into a makeshift campsite.

"So you're really getting a tattoo?" Jean asked later after everything was set up and they sat inside a clumsy pillow fort. There was nothing to give them light but a few strategically placed cell phones and an actual flashlight set up in the center of their ring. They'd called Ymir, Connie, and Sasha, but they hadn't answered. Historia mentioned that they were probably sleeping, because Ymir didn't actually like to stay up late.

"Yeah, I guess," Armin said slowly. "I mean… it's not a huge deal, is it? Lots of people have them."

"I have one," Mikasa admitted.

They all looked at her. She stared back vacantly.

"Can I see?" Historia asked, peeking over Annie's shoulder.

Mikasa nodded, rolling up her sleeve to her elbow and tugging what appeared to be a small handkerchief from her wrist. Armin was amazed to see a dark smudge of jagged lines, nothing about the tattoo truly concrete. It looked half finished. He saw Historia take Mikasa's hand to peer at it more closely, and when she touched it Mikasa pulled back.

"Where'd you get a tattoo?" Jean asked, bewildered.

She looked distant, but in truth Armin could taste how sheepish she was, her embarrassment crawling across his tongue in a sour burst. "My mother gave it to me."

Armin felt compelled to shout something, but he could sense Jean's mind running at the same frequency as his own, and they'd both come to the same conclusion without even speaking. So he glanced at him, and Jean glanced back somberly. He'd been overwhelmingly sad the past few days… weeks… and Armin wished he could help but he had no idea how. He knew that Jean felt lonely and isolated, and he wanted to change that, but it was difficult when he could feel the nostalgia dotting Jean's mind every time he so much as looked at Armin. It was uncomfortable to both of them how much he reminded Jean of Marco.

"Mikasa," Armin said gently, "your mother worked with the institute."

She did not respond. He had not told her previously to this because he'd be unsure of what she'd say or how she'd react, and it had not been so important in comparison to the other things going on in their lives.

And, in a naturally Mikasa fashion, she merely shrugged.

"That's not surprising," she admitted.

"How are you taking that so well?" Jean blurted. "Mikasa, that tattoo could be some of that weird voodoo ink that Levi's got!"

"That'd be funny if it was," she said.

"_Funny_?"

"I just mean," she said, "that we're very much alike, and we're possibly related, so it'd be very funny if we both had a tattoo like that. But I don't think it's magical by any means. I'd have known years ago."

Jean opened his mouth to tell her that yeah, she was related to Levi, but Armin crawled into his head and chastised him. _She doesn't want to know_, he whispered to Jean, who looked at Armin confusedly. _Don't tell her if she doesn't want to know, Jean. That's not nice_.

"I don't remember your mother," Annie said dully.

"She wasn't a doctor," Armin said, looking to Mikasa pointedly. "She did research, and helped with stuff like stem cell research. She was very good."

"That's nice to know," Mikasa murmured.

"I don't really remember my parents," Reiner admitted.

Annie sighed. She'd let her hair down for the night, and it was tucked carefully behind her ears and out of her eyes. Armin sensed that she was sad, and the icy prickle of it darted across his tongue, making him wince.

"I don't remember mine either," she admitted. "Sometimes I think I can remember my father, but then his face just turns to Marco's. It's unsettling."

Armin considered this fact, and he understood how disheartening it was to not know what the faces of the people who should've raised you. His mind travelled back, gazing in wonder at the beautiful eyes of his mother, and he tried his best to pull at that memory, to hear her singing and to feel her warmth, but all that was fading now.

He hoped he'd be all right enough, when this was all over, to visit her once more.

"Marco did a lot of damage," Armin murmured. "To you three… especially…"

They all turned to face him, and he felt their uncertainty and wonder and disbelief. Odd tastes clashing with odd feelings and he felt strung up on a clothesline in the middle of a hurricane, ripped apart under the streams of wind and rain and snarls of lightning.

"I'd like to undue Marco's mistakes," Armin said, staring between them and clasping his hands in order to calm himself. "I've thought about this a lot, and I think… it's only fair that I use the power I was given, his power, to bring back what he knowingly and unknowingly stole from us. And, maybe even the world."

"That's a lot of responsibility," Annie said, her eyes narrowing a bit. "Are you really willing to do such a thing?"

"Am I willing?" Armin smiled at her vacantly. "It isn't a question of will or strength. It's about choice. And I choose to be the medium between Marco and the world. He's not gone, after all, and I'd like to be able to speak with him on level terms sometime."

"He's evil," Eren pointed out.

"He's _misguided_," Armin replied. "I don't think anyone is especially evil or heroic. I came to that conclusion… a long time ago, I think, but it never really became relevant to me until now. I am not a good person—"

"Armin—" Mikasa began, leaning forward.

"No," Armin sighed, "no, it's true. I'm not… what anyone would or could consider purely good. I don't think any of us are. We've chosen to act the part of heroes, which is all well and good, but we'll always make mistakes, no matter our good intentions. That's what was wrong with Marco. He understood his actions were bad, but he did the things he did because he felt that it was necessary. For selfish reasons of course, but I understand his reasoning."

"Kenny Ackerman is evil," Historia spoke up in a soft, empty voice.

"Okay, you've got me there," Armin said, smiling at her dimly. "Marco is not, though."

"Are you saying we should forgive him?" Jean asked cautiously.

"No," Armin sighed. "Forgiveness and sympathy are different things entirely. If you don't forgive Marco, don't forgive him. He did terrible things to you— to all of you, and me as well. But in his own twisted way, he did care about all of us. So if we're going to proceed, and if we ever encounter him again, I think we should just remember that not everything is black and white."

"And if we don't agree?" Annie asked.

"Then you're under no obligation to agree with me," he told her gently. "I might use my powers in similar ways to Marco, but I'll never influence your choices. I'd give it all up in an instant before I controlled any of you."

"Well that's reassuring," Jean snorted.

"This is all really serious stuff," Reiner said vacantly. "I hate it. Let's talk about America's Next Top Model."

"Nobody here watches America's Next Top Model but you," Mikasa pointed out.

"That's because you're all clearly uncultured. Love yourselves and watch it."

"That's unlikely," Annie sighed.

"American Horror Story is better," Historia piped up. Eren glanced at her, and he frowned.

"You're creepy," he said.

"I watch it too, Eren," Armin reminded.

"I didn't mean it as an insult," Eren said blankly. "You're kinda creepy too, but in the best way."

"Okay, what about American Ninja Warrior," Jean said, grinning broadly. "Come on, I bet all of you watch that!"

"Shh," Mikasa hissed, pressing her finger to her lips. "You'll wake up Levi."

"Aw, no man the little grandpa could here me," Jean said, waving offhandedly. "He's all the way down the hall, isn't he?"

"You'd be surprised what he hears," Armin murmured, rubbing his temples. He didn't sense Levi approaching, but he knew that the man was awake and listening.

"I don't watch television," Annie admitted.

"I do sometimes…" Bertholdt looked a little nervous as he spoke. "I mean, it really depends… there are a lot of weird shows…"

"You watched Dance Moms, didn't you," Eren observed.

"Um…?" Bertholdt said weakly.

"I just watch cartoons," Mikasa said, resting her chin in her hands.

Jean snorted. "You still watch Gravity Falls, I'm guessing?"

"Is that a problem?"

"Nah, it's just funny."

"I like Gravity Falls," Eren said.

"Wow," Jean said, closing his eyes. "I don't know why these things surprise me anymore."

It was then that they began to doze off one by one, the lights of their phones dying as they tossed blankets over one another and threatened to muffle the person next to them with a pillow. Armin was surprisingly content in spite of the hushed minds pouring into his head all at once, tastes clashing into a stream of watery dreams. He curled up between Mikasa and Eren, sandwiched between the two with his arm extended in order to hold Historia's hand. She was lying opposite him, the crown of her head brushing his own.

In truth he was surprised at them all. He hadn't realized they'd cared this much. It was a little alarming even without the shuddering dreams, but he allowed himself this comfort.

The sound of breathing was the only sound he could hear, deep and shallow and mingling together, breath upon breath upon breath, and he heard it like he heard the wind howl and like he heard the thoughts snarl and like he heard his own heartbeat trembling inside his chest.

He felt an ice cube press onto his tongue and rest there until it was numb.

_Armin?_

He turned his face from Eren's chest toward the ceiling, listening to the breaths, feeling Mikasa and Eren's tickle his neck in hot bursts. They were clinging to him so tightly, he didn't think he could pry himself out of their grip.

_Annie?_

The silence trickled onward and the dreams melted like springtime frost.

_You're a good person_, she thought to him. She was hazy and distant, and her words flashed and dissipated like snowflakes meeting a puddle.

He mulled over this thought of hers, trying to understand why she'd reach out to him and tell him this of all things.

He closed his eyes, and he smiled.

_Doesn't that just mean I'm a good person to you?_ he thought to her. _Or I'm good for you to use?_

_No_, she thought back. _I just think you're a really good person_.

He considered this and all its odd springtime glory, tasting it like it could agitate his allergies at any moment, and he smiled.

_Even if it's not really that simple_, he thought, _I think you're a good person too_.

_Don't make this about me, moron._

_You brought it up, didn't you?_

She did not respond, and he opened his eyes. He could feel her presence not too far away, but he was afraid to stir lest he awaken Mikasa, who was a light sleeper on a good night. He felt Annie in his mind, but he also knew that she was opening hers up to him, which was exciting and terrifying. They trusted each other thoroughly, it seemed. How extraordinary.

_What's going to happen now, Armin? _Annie asked tentatively.

_Huh?_ He felt Historia squeezing his hand, and he wondered if she was having a nightmare. He breathed into the minds around him and granted them the best dreams he could make up, but for Historia he could do nothing but hold her hand and hope. _You mean, what does the future hold?_

_Yeah, I guess._

_I can't see the future_, Armin told her, his mind drifting off slowly into a fog. _But if I all I want is a future where I can be with all of you_.

Her silence caused him to sink further into the depths of his mind, and he thought that this was nice, that forgetting all his troubles and letting these minds wash over him in a blanket of soft dreams was nice.

_That's a fool's dream_, Annie told him, though he felt her hope and he felt her fear, and he blew at her a dream that would make her smile.

_If it is_, he thought to her, letting her sink with him into a happy place, _I must be the greatest fool to ever live_.

She did not comment that his wish was more or less Marco's without the complication of skewed morals.

She merely let him drag her into a sweet dream.

The next day, none of the adults made any comments about their sleepover. Everyone was oddly somber, and when Armin had awoken he'd been completely oblivious as to why.

Of course, that didn't last long. His surgery was scheduled rather early.

"Is it okay to be scared?" he whispered to Erwin as he settled into his hospital gown.

Erwin managed a smile, and Armin for the life of him could not tell if it was real or not. It was still infuriating, after all these years, how Armin could not read him.

"You have every right to be terrified," Erwin said to him calmly, brushing his hair from his forehead, the last time he'd be able to do it for what Armin imagined would be a long time. "You're smart, Armin. Your fear is a result of that."

"I don't feel especially smart right now," he mumbled. He leaned into Erwin's touch, and he wondered what the world would be like later on, if there would be a shift in his perception or if the world would not change at all.

"You are," Erwin said, smiling down at him, "the smartest person I have ever met. You never cease to amaze me, Armin. Even now."

"_Now_?" Armin croaked, flushing and feeling sheepish and dull. "I'm a mess right now, Erwin, a total freaking mess."

"You're brave," he said softly, smoothing back his hair, "and you're brilliant. And I don't want you to ever forget that."

Armin felt as though something was crushing his throat, so he managed a quick hug, squeezing Erwin tightly and feeling as though the world was an ocean rising up to wash him away.

"I'll probably be out of it when I get my tattoo," Armin said, deciding to change the topic quickly as his time ticked away from him, grains of sand pouring into his eyes as his life moved past him and was gulped down a great maw of a drain. "Please make sure it's not something terrible."

Erwin smiled knowingly.

"I think I can arrange for it to be something bearable," he said.

He didn't remember much of the surgery. Being awake was only part of it, and most of it was a hazy blur of sensations he couldn't explain and words that did not fully reach him. He was asked to do things as he was operated on, like speak and count and identify pictures, and he could not fathom how that was relevant when he was lying with his head cut open and his brain exposed. The world was filmy and dark and he was utterly entranced by it, and utterly revolted by the numbness and the starkness of pain.

It was a struggle, because he did not know fully what was happening around him, and nothing seemed to make any sense. If he was so smart, why couldn't he solve the simplest of puzzles? Why couldn't he put two and two together? Why was he such a fool?

Numbness and emptiness came hand and hand.

He slept it off.

When he woke up, it was to bleary lights streaming in lines of white across the blur of his vision. He was uncertain about what had transpired, and where he was, and how much time had passed since his conversation with Erwin, but now things were muddled and disorienting and he felt almost sick. He was dull and numb and feeling like there was pain somewhere, like a bite from a bug that he just could not find no matter how much time he spent prodding at his skin.

"Armin?"

Historia was sitting by his side, watching him with her face in a cloud and her eyes like twin pools of murky water fluttering against an onslaught of violent wind. She was sweet to see, but he hadn't a clue why she was there or where she had come from. He was lost.

"Hist…oria?" He groaned, and he sunk into the fluffy depths of his fluffy cloud bed, feeling like someone had taken a knife and driven it into his head over and over and over and over again until his brain became mush and leaked out of the hole left behind.

"I'm here," she said, taking his hand. She felt soft. She might've looked like a haze, her features shifting and nothing but her eyes concrete, but her skin was soft and real and nothing could numb that feeling. He was happy.

"Where's Erwin?" he murmured, blinking dazedly. "Eren? Mikasa?"

"Erwin will be back soon," she told him gently. "Eren and Mikasa are waiting."

"I wanna see them now…" he sighed, feeling the urge to squirm but lacking the energy.

"You'll see them soon, I promise," Historia swore, squeezing his hand. He looked at her. He believed her.

Time passed, but he couldn't be sure how much, and he tasted nothing but the sourness inside of his mouth.

"I picked out the words, you know," Historia blurted.

He turned to her, his face pressing firmly into his pillow. He felt as though something was missing, and he realized he'd been expecting his hair to fall into his eyes. But it was gone.

"What words?" he asked her confusedly.

She stared at him, all fuzzy and sweet, and she pointed.

Armin's eyes trailed away following her finger in a slow motion. They fell upon his exposed arm, which was covered by a bandage. With shaky, clumsy fingers, he tore at the bandage in a furious daze of emotion and listened for an objection from his flickering haze of a sister, but found that she gave none. The bandage came off with a rip, and he watched as it fell to the floor beside his IV drip.

He stared at his reddened forearm, his mind clicking on in a rush of emotion.

"I hope you like it," Historia said nervously. "Eren and Mikasa approved it before I told Levi. I thought… I thought it was a good reminder. For all of us."

The ink curled around his skin, dancing in the grooves of his flesh in slow motion, a tribute to how foggy the world was.

He felt numbness shatter inside him, a glass grenade erupting inside his throat, and he blinked as tears gathered up inside his eyes, slipping easily from his lashes and splashing hotly against his cheeks.

He couldn't speak, he couldn't think.

But he'd never been so grateful in his life.

The words sang to him.

_Memento vivere_, they called to him.

_Remember you live_.

* * *

**Salem, Oregon**

_a.d. Kal. Dec. 2826 A.U.C._

The snowflakes were falling rapidly, clumps of fluffy white ice drawing across the bitter air and gathering along the rows and rows, smoothing out small layers of white blankets as it went. Something in the air tasted like smoke. Had someone been burning something? The distinctly sharp scent of it billowed against the current of wind and made nostalgia rev up like an old busted machine, whirring madly and sadly in the dying daylight.

The day was dying, it seemed, and the light was being sucked up and away, leaving blotting darkness and dots of snow.

Graveyards were peaceful, of course, but too sad in truth to visit often. They were somber places. The dead could rest in peace, surely, and leave the leaving to rot. It was too harsh to stay for very long, and the conditions were terrible at best. Snow was biting and wind was slicing and the day's seams were unraveling and spilling darkness across the ashen sky.

He could smell smoke like a memory scorching into the side of his brain.

It was rising up inside of him, and he wondered what sort of miasma would leave his lips if he exhaled— smoke or mist?

He'd walked for a good five minutes. The snow was pressing heavily upon his feet. Snowflakes were melting in his hair.

He remembered the night he'd fucked everything up. It had been snowing then too, hadn't it?

Oh, but that had been nearly four hundred years ago now, and he was quite tired of remembering such sad things.

He'd come here for a purpose.

The daylight seemed to pour right out of the sky the moment he turned from the snow-covered path into a long row of protruding graves and buried plaques. There was a mound of blackened snow shadowed in the close distance.

There was a tiny figure standing just beside it.

He considered turning around and fleeing, but he was too frightened to move.

The wind began to toy with the tiny silhouette's cropped yellow hair, whirling it around flushed cheeks and tickling his jaw.

This boy was not possible.

"Armin?" he called, listening to snow crack beneath his feet. He was moving without thought. Tastes were dry, and there were none, and that was amazing. "Armin, is that—?"

The boy standing beside the mound of snowy dirt had a pale roll of smoldering paper stuck between his teeth. His fluffy blond hair whirled and whipped against the furious hand of the early winter wind. Snow had clumped against his long eyelashes, accentuating the fire in his bold blue eyes as he watched patiently, smoke curling in a dance of gray around his baby doll face.

"Actually," Historia Reiss said, blowing smoke into Marco's eyes, "it's Cicero now."

He wanted to object and say that was silly, but he was so transfixed by how her face mirrored Armin's so perfectly that it _frightened_ him. She'd shorn her hair to a length that allowed her to look exactly like her younger brother, and in the grayish sunset, she looked especially boyish.

He found his voice just as she took another drag from her cigarette.

"You'd forsake your name again?" he asked her, unable to keep the coy teasing from his voice. "I'm disappointed. You nearly killed yourself reclaiming your identity."

"Oh, I'm still Historia," she said to him coolly, smoke splashing once more into his face. "Just to the people I trust. That, Marco, does not include you."

"I'd imagine not," he said quietly. His eyes swiveled to the mound of dirt, but there was no plaque nor gravestone yet. The funeral had been earlier in the day. "You look so much like your brother, you know… I think I lost my wits when I saw you. I'm sorry."

"I cut my hair because I wanted to look more like Armin," she told him with a vague little shrug. "I'm okay with admitting that. Though when I did it he told me I was silly, and that I should've cut my hair the way I wanted for myself, or whatever. He's always been very adamant that I develop my own opinions and become my own person."

"You're a very good sister," Marco told her, pride welling up inside his chest and expanding rapidly. Despite her youthful appearance, this girl had grown up so much since the last time they had met. He'd seen her here and there over the years, but never up close. He'd been exiled from the family he'd created, and he'd accepted that.

She scoffed at that. "Nah, not really," she said, glancing up at the sky. "I try, though. I guess that counts."

"It does," he assured her. "It really does."

"So why'd you miss the funeral?" she asked casually, as though he'd been invited or something.

"Um…" He watched as she pinched the roll of her cigarette, tossing the ashes onto the snowy dirt mound. "I certainly would've if I thought I was welcome."

"We were all expecting you to show up," she said. "I had a bet going with Connie."

"How is he?" he found himself asking eagerly. "He's lost so many people in such a short time—"

"Ymir died like, ten years ago," Historia told him sharply. Yes, how could he forget that? He hadn't gone to that funeral, nor had he even been to see her grave. He was so mortified, and so sad, because that girl had been his little sister and he had loved her. And she had loved him. And he felt as though he'd abandoned her. How could he face her grave? "Eliza's been dead longer, and his parents died forever ago. Yeah, Sasha died last year, but he's… okay. I think. Marigold and Mark are still alive, and he's got his kids and grandkids."

Marco did not know the details of Sasha's death, but he understood that she'd died in her sleep. Rightfully so, considering she'd lived a life so adventurous that many compared her to Theodore Roosevelt in terms of demeanor and stamina. It helped that she had won numerous Olympic gold medals for archery.

"And… how are you doing?" he pressed Historia. "I mean, without Ymir."

"I'm okay," she said in dull tone. He knew she was lying but he let it go because she was glaring at him. "She was pretty old. And she wanted to die."

"You offered to heal her, didn't you?" he asked her excitedly.

"I asked them all if they wanted me to heal them," she told him, her furious eyes burning brighter than the smoldering end of her cigarette. "Reiner considered it, but he decided he was okay with dying. Sasha just said no, and then when I asked her kids they said no too. Levi _laughed_ at me when I asked him. Hange never answered, but Eren told me not to. Erwin was the only one who ever accepted, and that was because he hadn't made the proper arrangements and wanted to be better prepared."

"That's amazing," he said, watching her eyes narrow at him. "You did the exact opposite of what I wanted, and yet you did exactly what I would do."

"I don't ask for consent under the guise of mind control, Marco," she told him coldly.

He smiled at her vacantly. "I know," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Sorry is all you ever are," she spat, flicking her still burning cigarette onto the fresh mound of dirt. "Don't be sorry to me. I don't give a shit about you, Marco."

"I wish I could say that feeling was mutual, but…" He shrugged sheepishly. She did not look at him, but instead rolled her eyes. "How's Armin?"

"Alive," she said.

"Which is remarkable, yeah," he sighed, "but I mean, what has he been up to?"

"Uh," she said, "well considering he's too old to be doing espionage, he's just been living quietly."

"With Eren and Mikasa?"

"Well, yeah, duh." Historia squinted at him. "Annie lives with them too when she feels like it."

"I wouldn't expect anything less from Annie," he laughed, though he didn't feel very much like laughing. He was staring at the grave sadly.

"Jean wanted me to give you this," she said, digging through her pockets and retrieving an opened pack of cigarettes. In truth, seeing it and hearing her words did not click, and he felt as though someone had detached him from the earth all of a sudden. He was numbed by the spitting wind and the kisses of snow. "I took one because he owed me, and dead guys don't pay their debts, so…"

"He…" It was odd to be struck speechless. It had not happened in a very long time, and he wasn't sure what to do. He felt as though someone had crushed his lungs in an iron fist, and he had difficulty breathing as he stared at the pack of cigarettes and let his mind wander the distant memory of the boy who had often spouted vicious opinions through a cloud of smoke.

"I wonder," she whispered, her eyes narrowing at his face as she offered out the cigarettes, "if he forgave you after all."

Marco swallowed with great difficulty, feeling dizzy and nauseous as he reached for the pack. She drew back from him, and he paused.

"You hate me," he observed.

"I hate a lot of things and people," she said. "Don't feel special."

"You spent too much time with Ymir," he said, staring vacantly at the cigarettes and feeling desperately eager to get his hands on them.

"No," Historia said, raising her chin high. "I simply let myself be me. And the person I am is not particularly nice, I don't think. You must understand that."

"We truly are alike, aren't we?" he asked her bitterly, tears filling his eyes.

"Truly," she hissed, tossing the cigarettes at his feet. They collapsed in the dirt and the snow, and Marco closed his eyes and reached into his pocket as he bent to pick up the pack.

"You're training the kids, aren't you?" he whispered, wiping the wet dirt from the surface of the pack with his thumb. He closed his other hand around something cold and hard, a metal chill digging into the grooves of his fingers.

"Stay away from them," she warned him, her eyes flashing. "If you even try to manipulate them, I'll kill you."

"That's what I want, though," he reminded her, tears blinding him. "Are you too weak to do it, Historia? Too scared of being alone forever?"

He doubled over in pain as her tiny foot came smashing into his gut. She had a surprising amount of strength for someone so small, and she was clearly much faster than he'd anticipated. But she'd had years and years to train herself in the ways of combat, so he couldn't be too surprised.

"It'd be too easy to kill you," she snapped, tears turning the whites of her eyes a brilliant red. He smiled to himself, wrapping his arm around his stomach and withdrawing his hand from his pocket. "I decided a long time ago that if I had to suffer watching everyone I love die, so do you."

"Is that so?" he croaked, tears freezing on his cheeks. "Well, congratulations! We're both stuck in hell!"

"You call it hell," she said, her expression setting in determination. "But unlike you, I'm not alone in this world."

"Not yet," he told her. "You'll understand soon, though. Death would be such a gift to monsters like us."

"I am not a monster," she declared.

"Not yet," he laughed.

"Not ever!" She was crying too, he noticed, and he felt like sobbing as he realized that this was their fate. Two sad immortal beasts crying over their misfortune for all eternity. His fist closed around the pack of cigarettes. It was unfair. "If someone calls you a monster for long enough, you might become one. That's why…" She stared at him. She shook her head, her lips a thin line, and Marco wished he could hear her thoughts, but she'd done well in arming herself against his telepathy. Perhaps Armin had taught her how, or Ymir.

"That's why…?" Marco smiled at her tremulously. "What? That's why I am the way I am?"

She tilted her head, pale tear tracks glistening on her flushed cheeks.

"It's why you can change," she said mechanically. "Enjoy your cigarettes. Jean said told me to tell you that you were wrong, by the way."

"Wrong?" he whispered, his mind a blanket of snow. Blank and white and blinding.

Historia shrugged, and she pulled her hood up. He noticed it was white, and that she was wearing a cloak not dissimilar to the one she wore as Vitae, only a bit shorter and with slats in order to stick her arms through. With the hood, there was absolutely no telling the difference between her and how Armin had looked when he'd still been a boy.

"When I asked him if he wanted me to heal him," she said, "he told me he'd expected you to be there, and that he was disappointed you weren't. Then he told me to tell you that you were wrong, and you'd know why."

"He knew I'd show up?" Marco murmured, blinking dazedly through his tears. He tried to wipe them away, but they only came streaming faster, and he thought he might choke upon them. He felt so terrible about everything that he had done. To Jean, and to Ymir, and even to this hateful little girl who he'd granted immortality to.

"I don't know," she said. "I'm not actually Armin, I don't read minds. But I guess he was hoping. Anyway, do with that what you will. I'm done with you."

"I have something for you," he blurted, reaching over Jean's grave for her. She glanced at him, and he felt a jolt of blood slither down his throat as she allowed him to feel her rage. He swallowed it down, all that sickening sourness of it. He was sad at her fury, but also proud. He was glad to see she had the will to hate him so thoroughly.

"I don't want it," she told him curtly.

"Yes you do," he said, offering out the glittering locket and begging she'd take pity on him and look. "Please take it. Keep it if you want, but if you don't then you should bring it to Ymir's grave. It was hers."

Historia looked alarmed, and she reached hesitantly, her pale fingers brushing his. He saw her pale wrist, milky skin and vibrant webs of blue veins, and there were black words scripted in a swirling, masterful hand from bone to bone. _Memento mori_, it said. The irony was palpable, like a mist of breath upon his prickling face. She plucked the locket from his palm, and it dangled in the haze of twilight. She looked bemused, but he could sense she recognized it, and she pulled it carefully to her chest.

"I hate you," she whispered.

"The world is so unkind," he whispered, his eyes swiveling to Jean's grave. "Consider this a peace offering. I'd like to help you, Cicero. If you'd allow me to."

She was shaking, he noted, her lips trembling pitifully as the snow danced around her, the wind singing her sad dirge, and he felt her sorrow. He felt her rage. He was in the same position of anguish. No one in the world could understand them so thoroughly as they understood each other now.

"Goodbye, Jean," she said to the mound of dirt, whirling away and letting herself be swallowed by the storm of flurries. She was camouflaged easily by the snow.

He stood, dumb and numbed and shaking. All he had wanted was to love something he could keep forever. He was a fool. Nothing lasted forever, not even him. He was a monster playing saint. He'd acted that part for far too long.

He genuflected, feeling his knees sink into the snow.

_I'm sorry_, he thought, his sobs to quiet to be audible over the steady wail and whine of the wind. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_.

_Marco_, said a distant, quiet voice._ Stop apologizing. Apologies from you mean nothing_.

He felt his entire world collapsing around him. He turned, and squinted blearily into the dust and the darkness, but he did not see the boy he'd once known. He did not see anyone.

_Are you mocking me, Armin?_ He nearly laughed, but he didn't feel much like laughing, and instead rubbed his eyes and let the snow gather in his eyes. _That's cruel of you_.

_Me?_ It was the voice of a child, though Marco knew he was an old man now. _Cruel? Remember who you're talking to. You put me through mental hell._

_Will you return the favor? _

_That is not my intention. _

Snow crunched softly behind him. The darkness was too thick now to see anything but the snowy mound of dirt, and the dance of snowflakes as they clogged his vision. There was a heavy sound, ice cracking and snow shifting, and the dance of snowflakes paused mid-descent.

"Jean had a request," a quiet rumble of a voice said from beside him. Marco didn't want to look. He knew what Armin looked like now. "He told me that he forgave you. Which, by the way, is more than what you deserve."

"It is," Marco agreed vacantly.

"However," Armin said, "because I cared about Jean, I want to make sure his final wish meant something."

"Why send Historia when you were just going to show up yourself?" he whispered, glancing up sharply at the old man's face. He'd aged remarkably well, few wrinkles and a vague residual roundness from childhood even now. His hair was still long and fluffy, but white now, and the snow that twinkled madly like frozen stars around them. Marco could taste Annie's mind nearby, and it frightened him.

"She's Cicero now," the boy-turned-old man said with a shrug. "I know you're aware of the new heroes our generation produced. Well, not me, of course, but Connie and Sasha and Mikasa and Eren and Rico and… ah. Yeah." He laughed a little, and the sound was strange and familiar, and Marco began to cry even more. "Anyway, she's their leader. She decides if you're worthy enough, not me. So I wanted her to come meet you for herself to see if you've changed."

"I don't think I have…" Marco murmured. "I'm… I'm…"

"Still selfish?" Armin offered. "That's okay, so is Historia. She begged Ymir to let her heal her, but Ymir really wanted to die, and that's just life I guess."

"Yes," Marco sighed, rubbing his eyes.

"I think you're okay, though," he said gently, placing his wizened hand on Marco's head, inky letters swirling in his eyes as his palm brushed his skin. _Memento vivere_. After all this time, he still lived. How funny, how funny, what an otherworldly joke. He was struck by a sudden hammer of emotion. Of Eren's beaming face when he got a job as a professor of biology at his alma mater, of Mikasa twirling and whirling across a stage, toeing herself to and fro en pointe, of Historia's success as a paramedic, of Annie's adjustment into normalcy through a promising soccer career, of Connie's high school gym teacher job which gave him a surprising amount of joy, of Sasha and Jean's first Olympic games, of Bertholdt's bright, disbelieving smile the day he received his degree in psychology, of Reiner's booming laugh as he leaned over his bar and ruffled Armin's hair affectionately, of Hange's political conquests and Levi's constant presence, as a guard, as a secret service man, only leaving his post to manage for a brilliant prima ballerina, of Erwin's successful merger between _the Brigade_ and _the Garrison_, a new news network forming called _the Legion_. And Armin, always the resilient, sat before him with a smile that could shake the earth. "So here's my proposal. You'll try. You'll prove that you're not the monster you've been pretending to be. And you'll accept that you are, like me, like Historia, like Jean, like every single one of the children you stole, _human_. And then you'll never have to be alone again."

The snow had stopped around them, and he was inhaling the flakes with great heaves of breaths, trying to discern what Armin could possibly mean.

How cruel he was to fool him like this.

"I'm not playing a cruel trick, Marco, I'm not you," Armin sighed. "Regardless of what you might think. We only want what's best for the world. And if you can protect it without being a dictator, then you should prove that you care. I know that you can do good. But you need to show the rest of the world. Can you do that?"

He stared at Jean's grave, and he wondered what the boy would've said if he'd been in Marco's place. He was so confused, and he was so misguided, and he wanted to believe Armin so badly it made his chest ache.

"You want me to be a hero?" Marco whispered, rising to his feet unsteadily.

Armin gave him a long look, one of pity and sympathy and perhaps even disdain. But then, the emotions melted, and the old man gave the smile of a little boy. Despite Marco's expectations, an old man he stayed, and his wrinkles sunk heavily into his cheeks instead of being washed away by a trickster's hand and soaked in sunlight while he wiped his age and bathed in youth. The difference between them was so terribly clear. Armin did not hide in illusions because he had no need for them. He was who he was, and he wore that plainly for all to see. His little boy's smile was warm and bright on his wizened face.

"All I want," he said softly, "is for you to be human."

And in a blink, he disappeared from Marco's sight. And the snow began to fall again.

* * *

_I would first and foremost like to thank everyone who's stuck with this monstrosity thus far, everyone that's reviewed and enjoyed it, everyone that's been patient with the plot and the length. I need to thank Steph for being so awesome and prompting me, this was for her from the start, and Angie for practically writing half the fic bc I just went to her with every single fucking thing, and she was especially helpful when I had doubts about the fic's quality or if I could finish the story (I HONESTLY CAN'T BELIEVE I DID TBH), she's the best, Steph's the best, you're all the best. Thank you so much. =]_

_I tried my best to answer every question I could possibly think of, but of course there's stuff I missed so hit me up on tumblr if you have questions about this universe or the fates of characters, or why I chose to end it the way I did. This was planned, by the way. I always meant to have Historia and Marco meet over Jean's grave, you can go back to the chapter Historia was introduced and Marco warned Jean about the day he'd die, I think that was definitely the point where I constructed this ending. Armin's survival was a surprise. I honestly almost did kill him, but I wanted him to survive in a way that combine the theme of humanity while still keeping that superhero element of cheap tricks to get the hero to narrowly escape death. _

_This fic meant a lot to me, and I'm glad I'm wrote it and even happier that I finished it. I'm sure some of you are sad that it's ending, but come on. At least I finished it, right? Look at the length, I'm lucky I got this far, and I'm so happy that I did because I got to give a conclusion instead of leaving everyone hanging for years. This has been the best time, but I'm obviously moving on to other stuff (if you guys really like my writing, I'm in the middle of a snk ghost story au involving Armin investigating Eren's disappearance, like tis the season hell yeah hell yeah). _

_I hope the ending didn't disappoint, and? Well, here we are!_

_The End. _


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Shingeki no Kyojin/進撃の巨人, Adventure, Friendship